~J— 


POEMS, 


DY 


FREDERICK   GODDARD  TJUCKERMAN. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOtt     AND     FIELDS 

1864. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  CongreM,  In  the  year  1864,  by 

FRRDKRICK   O.    TUCKKKMAV. 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  MaMachuetU. 


Thett  Poenu  tore  fint  collected  and  printed  in  1860. 


DUOPAGE 

Reproduced  by  XEROGRAPHY 
by  Micro  Photo  Inc. 
Cleveland  12,  Ohio 


ERRATA. 

Page  53,  line  15,  for  "poles  »  read  «  polls." 

H    89,  „  13,  „    « bog-hut  "read"  log-hut." 

»  114»  M  3»  »,   "smiles"  rearf" smile." 

,.120,  „  is,  „   "Rhotruda"reorf«Rhotrude.1 

•»'*!.  ..  15,  „   •»  plaint  "read  "paint" 

"    "'  "  I7>  M   "^"''^"Yet." 

"  irs  "  "  «  faftsmen  "  reorf  "  raftsman." 

»  *34,    „     4,  w  « earthly  "raK/«  earthy." 


234  SONNETS. 


XXXVI. 


FAREWELL  !  farewell,  0  noble  heart !  I  dreamed 
That  Time  nor  Death  could  from  my  side  divorce 
Thy  fair  young  life,  beside  whose  pure,  bright 

course 

•  My  earthly  nature  stationary  seemed; 
Yet,  by  companionship,  direction  took, 
And  progress,  as  the  bank  runs  with  the  brook,— 
Oh  !  round  that  mould  which  all  thy  mortal  hath/' 
Our  children's,  and  about  my  own  sore  path, 
May  thoHo  dim  thoughts  not  fall  as  dry  and  vain, 
But,  fruitful  as  March-dust,  or  April  rain, 
Forerun  the  green  !  foretell  the  perfect  day 
Of  restoration,— when,  in  fields  divine, 
And  walking  as  of  oM,  thy  hand  in  mine, 
By  the  still  waters  wo  may  softly  stray  ! 


IV  CONTENTS. 

THE  SCHOOL-GIRL:  AN  IDYLL 86- 

A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE  BBANS    ,        ,        ,       ,       ,          94 
A  LATTER  DAY  SAINT  .    106 

ANYBODY'S  CRITIC 109 

RHOTRUDA..       .       .       •       •       •       .       .       .       .112 
CORALIB 121 

I  TOOK  FROM   ITS  GLASS  i  .  i  .  .          .  .123 

AS   SOMETIMES   IN  A   GROVE .          »          »  124 

MARK  ATHERTON      .       .       .       •       .       .       .  .135 

SIDNEY ,  148 

REFRIOBRIUM     .       - 153 

TUB  OLD  BEGGAR        ,»,,,.,  155 

PAULO  TO  FRANOESOA       .        •        •       .       .        .  .    158 

WHEN  THE  DIM  DAY  .......  161 

HYMN  to  THE  VIRGIN      .        .        .       •        ,        .  .    165 

TRANSLATION         .        *        .        .        .        *        .        -.  166 

MAROITES   .,..,.,,,  16? 


SONNETS.    PART  I.  .        . 171 

SONNETS.    PART  II.      .......         199 


f  i 


. 


60S 


CONTENTS, 


PART  I. 

NOVEMBER   ,       , 

*       •        •        t 
APRIL      ,       .        ,        ,       t 

MAT  FLOWERS    , 

HTMN  FOR  A  DEDICATION     , 

INSPIRATION 

•  »        •        t        f 

INFATUATION  ,        , 

SONNET        ,        .       , 

PlCOMKOAN          .  , 

THE  SUPERLATIVE      , 
SONNET  I.        , 
SONNET  II,  ,       ,       , 
THE  QUESTION  , 

TWILIGHT    , 

*  *       •       •       •       t 
ELIDORE  . 

THB  CLEARING    , 
To  THE  RIVER 


PART  n. 

A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OF  NATURE'S  DEEP 
THE  STRANOEB 


POEMS. 


PART  I, 


OH  !  who  is  there  of  us  that  has  not  felt 
The  sad  decadence  of  the  failing  year, 
And  marked  the  lesson  still  with  grief  and  fear 
Writ  in  the  rolled  leaf,  and  widely  dealt? 
When  now  no  longer  burns  yon  woodland  belt 
Bright  with  disease ;  no  tree  in  glowing  death 
Leans  forth  a  cheek  of  flame  to  fade  and  melt 
In  the  warm  current  of  the  west  wind's  breath ; 


2  NOVEMBER* 

Nor  yet  through  low  blue  mist,  on  slope  and  plain, 
Droops  the  red  sunlight  in  a  dream  of  day ; 
But,  from  that  lull,  the  winds  of  change  have  burst 
And  dashed  the  drowsy  leaf  with  shattering  rain, 
And  swung  the  groves,  and  roared,  and  wreaked 

their  worst, 
Till  all  the  world  is  harsh,  and  cold,  and  gray. 


THE  first  of  April !  yet  November's  haze 
Hangs  on  the  wood,  and  blurs  the  lull's  blue  tip : 
The  light  of  noon  rests  wanly  on  the  strip 
Of  sandy  road  j  recalling  leaf-laid  ways, 
Shades  stilled  in  death,  and  tender  twilight  days 
Ere  Winter  lifts  the  wind-trump  to  his  lip, 
No  moss  is  shyly  seen  a  tuft  to  raise, 
Nor  under  grass  a  gold-eyed  flower  to  dip ; 
Nor  sound  if  breathed,  but  haply  tho  south-west 
Faint  rippling  in  tho  brushes  of  the  pine, 
Or  of  the  shrunken  leaf,  dry-fluttering. 
Compact  the  village  lies,  a  whitened  line 
Gathered  in  smoke.    What  holds  this  brooding 

rest? 

Is  it  dead  Autumn  ?  or  the  dreaming  Spring  ft 

1— s 


gflatr 


WHERE  the  dwarf  pine  reddens 

The  rocks  and  soil  with  its  rusted  leaves 

And  skeleton  cones ; 

And  the  footstep  deadens, 
As  it  clambers  o'er  roots  and  broken  stones ; 
While  a  noise  of  waves  the  ear  deceives 
As  the  sigh  of  the  wind  through  the  foliage  heaves, 

And  the  restless  heart  saddens 

.  _•  ••  . 

With  the  surging  tones  ; 
Where  falls  no  change 

From  the  best  and  brightest  of  spring-tide  hours, 
And  the  children  of  Summer  their  gifts  estrange, 

When  dashing  with  flowers 
Lowland,  and  upland,  and  craggy  range  :  — 


MAY  FLOWERS. 


There,  where  Decay  and  chilled  Life  stared  together 

Forlornly  round ; 
In  an  April  day  of  wilful  weather, 
The  hidden  Spring  I  found. 


Ere  the  Month,  in  bays  and  hollows, 
Strung  with  leaves  the  alder  spray, 

Or  with  bloom,  on  river-shallows, 
Dropped  the  wands  of  willows  gray ; 

Ere  her  fingers  flung  the  cowslip 
Golden  through  the  meadow-glade, 

Or  the  bloodroot's  caps  of  silver 
Flickered  where  her  feet  had  played  ; 

Whilst  above  the  bluffs  were  hiding 
Sullen  brows  in  slouching  snows, — 

Through  the  leaves  my  footstep  sliding 
Fell  where  hers  first  touched  and  rose. 


6  MAY  FLOWERS. 

•  Underneath  the  dead  pine-droppings, 

Breaking  white  through  mildewed  mould, 
Gleamed  a  rosy  chain  of  flowerets, — 
Rosy  flowerets,  fresh  and  cold : 


Swept  not,  but  by  shadow  swaying 

Of  wild  branch  in  windy  air, 
Couched  the  buds,  unguessed,  and  laying 

Star  to  star,  in  darkness  there. 


Eagerly,  yet  half  reluctant, 
As  the  daylight  lit  on  them, 

Of  its  clinging  tufts  of  odour 
Quick  I  stript  the  trailing  stem  ; 


And  their  lights  in  cluster  blending,- 
Barren  sounds  and  damp  decays 

Sank,  in  sighs  of  Summer  ending 
And  a  smell  of  balmy  days. 


MAY  FLOWERS. 

So  refreshed  and  fancy-solaced, 
Through  the  Shadow  on  I  past ; 

While  Life  seemed  to  heat  and  kindle 
In  the  breath  my  darlings  cast. 


As  I  parted  from  the  pine-trees, 
Gathering  in,  as  round  a  grave 

Mourners  close ; — above 'their  branches, 
From  a  glimmering  western  cave, 


Sunlight  hroke  into  the  valley  ; 

Filling  with  an  instant  glow 
All  its  basin,  from  the  brook-bed 

To  the  dark  edge  touched  with  snow : 


And,  by  luring  sweet,  and  lustre, 
Summoned  from  his  rock  or  tree, 

Heavily,  round  leaf  and  cluster, 
Hurtled  the  bewildered  bee. 


H  MAY  FLOWERS. 

So,  until  I  found  the  village, 
Welcome  brightened  in  the  air,— 

Where,  from  porch  and  vine-filled  window, 
Beamed  a  welcome  still  more  fair,— 


Girlish  heads,  half-seen,  and  glancing, 
Peeped  athrough  the  leaf-lorn  bowers  J 

And  the  little  children,  dancing, 

Clapped  their  hands,  and  cried, "  Mayflowers ! 


Since  I  found  that  buried  garland, 
Fair,  and  fresh,  and  rosy-cold, 

All  has  been  its  life  foreshadowed, — 
Woods  in  umbrage  banked  and  rolled, 


MAY  FLOWERS.  9 

Meadows  brimmed  with  clover,  ridges 
Where  through  fern  the  lupine  crowds, 

And  upon  the  sandstone  ledges 
Laurel  heaped  like  sunset  clouds : 


But  the  wayward  mind,  regretful, 
Wanders  through  that  April  day, 

And,  hy  fields  for  ever  faded, 
Seems  to  tread  a  vanished  way, 


Till  it  finds  those  low  lights  flushing 
Through  the  pine-trees'  mouldered  spines, 

And  hears  still  the  mournful  gushing 
Of  the  north  wind  in  the  pines* 


10 


j[or  the  iettiortion  0Jf  a  fljjemetcrg. 


BESIDE  the  River's  dark  green  flow- 
Here,  where  the  pine-trees  weep, 

Red  Autumn's  winds  will  coldly  blow 
Above  their  dreamless  sleep  ; 


Their  sleep,  for  whom  with  prayerful  breath 

We've  put  apart  to-day, 
This  spot, — for  shadowed  walks  of  Death, 

And  gardens  of  Decay. 


This  crumbling  bank  with  Autumn  crowned, 

These  pining  woodland  ways, 
Seem  now  no  longer  common  ground  j 

But  each  in  turn  conveys 


,    HYMN  FOIl  A  DEDICATION,  11 

A  saddened  sense  of  something  more : 

Is  it  the  dying  year  ? 
Or  a  dim  shadow,  sent  before, 

Of  the  next  gathering  here  ? 


Is  it  that  He,  the  silent  Power, 
Has  now  assumed  the  place, 

And  drunk  the  light  of  Morning's  hour, 
The  life  of  Nature's  grace  ? 


Not  so :  the  spot  is  beautiful, 

And  holy  is  the  sod  ; 
'Tis  we  are  faint,  our  eyes  are  dull ; 

All  else  is  fair  in  God. 


So  let  them  lie,  their  graves  bedecked, 
Whose  bones  these  shades  invest, 

Nor  grief  deny,  nor  fear  suspect, 
The  beauty  of  their  rest. 


12 


Inspiration, 


THS  common  paths  by  which  we  walk  and  wind 
Unheedful,  but  perhaps  to  wish  them  done, 
Though  edged  with  brier  and  clotbur,  bear  behind 
Such  leaves  as  Milton  wears,  or  Shakspeare  won* 
Still  could  we  look  with  clear  poetic  faith, 
No  day  so  desert  but  a  footway  hath, 
Which  still  explored,  though  dimly  traced  it  turn, 
May  yet  arrive  where  gates  of  glory  burn  ; 
Nay,  scarce  an  hour,  of  all  the  shining  twelve, 
But  to  the  inmost  sight  may  ope  a  valve 
On  thpse  hid  gardens,  where  the  great  of  old 
Walked  from  the  world,  and  their  sick  hearts  con 
soled 

Mid  bowers  that  full  not,  wells  which  never  waste, 
And  gathered  flowers,  the  fruit  whereof  we  taste  s 


INSPIRATION,  13 

While,  of  the  silent  hours  that  mourn  the  day, 
Not  one  but  bears  a  poet's  crown  away ; 
Regardless,  or  unconscious,  how  he  might 
Collect  an  import  from  the  fires  of  night, 
Which,  when  the  hand  is  still,  and  fixed  the  head, . 
Shall  tremble,  starlike,  o'er  the  undying  dead ; 

And,  with  a  tearful  glory, 

Through  the  darkness  shadowing  then, 
Still  light  the  sleeper's  story, 

In  the  memories  of  men, 

And  such  are  mine ;  for  mo  these  scenes  decay, — 

For  me,  in  hues  of  change,  are  ever  born ; 

The  faded  crimson  of  a  wasted  day, 

The  gold  and  purple  braveries  of  the  Morn ; 

The  life  of  Spring,  the  strength  that  Summer  gains, 

The  dying  foliage  sad  September  stains ; 

By  latter  Autumn  shattered  on  the  plain, 

Massed  by  the  wind,  blent  by  the  rotting  rain ; 

Till  belts  of  snow  from  cliff  to  cliff  appear, 

And  whitely  link  the  dead  and  new-born  year. 


14  INSPIRATION. 

All  these,  to  music  deep,  for  me  unfold, 

Yet  vaguely  die :  their  sense  I  cannot  hold, — 

But  shudder  darkly  as  the  years  drop  by 

And  leave  me,  lifting  still  a  darkened  eye. 

Or  if  from  these  despondingly  I  go 

To  look  for  light  where  clear  examples  glow, 

Though  names  constellate  glitter  overhead, 

To  prompt  the  path,  and  guide  the  failing  tread, 

I  linger,  watching  for  a  warmer  gleam, 

While  still  my  spirit  shivers,  and  I  seem 

Like  one  constrained  to  wander 

Alone,  till  morning  light, 
Beneath  the  hopeless  grandeur 

Of  a  star-filled  winter's  night. 


15 


Jttfatuattom 


'Tis  his  one  hope  :  all  else  that  round  his  life 
So  fairly  circles,  scarce  he  numhers  now. 
The  pride  of  name,  a  lot  with  blessings  rife, 
Determined  friends,  great  gifts  that  him  endow, 
Are  shrunk  to  nothing  in  a  woman's  smile  s 
Counsel,  reproof,  entreaty,  all  are  lost, 
Like  windy  waters  which  their  strength  exhaust, 
And  leave  no  impress ;  worldly  lips  revile 
With  sneer  and  stinging  gihe ;  but  idly  by, 
Unfelt,  unheard,  the  impatient  arrows  fly. 
Careless,  he  joins  a  parasitic  train, — 
Fops,  fools,  and  flatterers,  whom  her  arts  enchain. 
Nor  counts  aught  base  that  may  to  her  pertain. 


16  INFATUATION. 

Immersed  in  love,  or  what  lie  deems  is  such, 
The  present  exigence  he  looks  to  please, 
Nor  seeks  beyond  5  hut  only  strives  to  clutch 
That  which  will  goad  his  heart,  hut  ne'er  can  ease : 
So  the  drenched  sailor,  wrecked  in  Indian  seas, 
To  some  low  reef  of  wounding  coral  clings 
Mid  slav'ry  weed,  and  drift,  and  ocean  scurf; 
Yet  heedeth  not  companionship  of  these, 
But  strains  his  quivering  grasp,  and  stoutly  swings, 
Despite  of  lifting  swell  and  flinging  surf, 


17 


AGAIN,  again,  ye  part  in  stormy  grief 
From  these  bare  hills,  and  bowers  so  built  in  vain, 
And  lips  and  hearts  that  will  not  move  again, — 
Pathetic  Autumn,  and  the  writhled  leaf; 
Dropping  away  in  tears  with  warning  brief: 
The  wind  reiterates  a  wailful  strain, 
And  on  the  skylight  beats  the  restless  rain, 
And  vapour  drowns  the  mountain,  base  and  brow, 
I  watch  the  wet  black  roofs  through  mist  defined, 
I  watch  the  raindrops  strung  along  the  blind, 
And  my  heart  bleeds,  and  all  my  senses  bow 
In  grief ;  as  one  mild  face,  with  suffering  lined, 
Comes  up  in  thought :  oh  wildly,  rain  and  wind, 
Mourn  on  !  she  sleeps,  nor  heeds  your  angry  sor 
row  now, 

2 


18 


STARS  of  gold  the  green  sod  fretting, 
Clematis  the  thicket  netting, 
Silvery  moss  her  locks  down-letting 

Like  a  maiden  brave : 
Arrowhead  his  dark  flag  wetting 

In  thy  darker  wave. 

By  the  River's  broken  border 
Wading  through  the  ferns, 

When  a  darker  deep,  and  broader, 
Fills  its  bays  and  turns ; 

Up  along  the  winding  ridges, 
Down  the  sudden-dropped  descent, 


PICOMEGAN,  19 

Rounding  pools  with  reedy  edges, 

Silent  coves  in  alders  pent, — 
Through  the  river-flags  and  sedges 

Dreamily  I  went, 

Dreamily,  for  perfect  Summer 

Hushed  the  vales  with  misty  heat  j 
In  the  wood,  a  drowsy  drummer, 

The  woodpecker,  faintly  beat ; 
Songs  were  silent,  save  the  voices 

Of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 
Save  the  wisdom  of  the  voices 

Only  known  in  solitude : 
But  to  me,  a  lonely  liver, 

All  that  fading  afternoon 
From  the  undermining  river 

Came  a  burden  in  its  tune  ;— • 
Came  a  tone  my  car  remembers, 

And  I  said,  "  What  grief  thee  grieves, 
Pacing  through  thy  leafy  chambers, 

And  thy  voice  of  rest  bereaves  ? 

2—2 


20  PICOMEGAN. 

Winds  of  change  that  wail  and  blaster, 

Sunless  morns,  and  shivering  eves, 
Carry  sweets  to  thee  belonging, — 

All  of  light  thy  rim  receives ; 
River-growths  that  fold  and  cluster, 

Following  where  the  waters  lead, 
Bunches  of  the  purple  aster, 

Mints,  and  blood-dropped  jewel-weed, 
Like  carnelians  hanging 

Mid  their  pale-green  leaves : 
Wherefore  then,  with  sunlight  heaping 

Perfect  joy  and  promised  good, 
When  thy  flow  should  pulse  in  keeping 

With  the  beating  of  the  blood, 
Through  thy  dim  green  shadows  sweeping, 
When  the  folded  heart  is  sleeping, 

Dost  thou  mourn  and  brood  ?  " 

Wider,  wilder,  round  the  headland, 

Black  the  River  swung, 
Over  skirt  and  hanging  woodland 

Deeper  stillness  hung, 


PICOMEGAN,  21 

As  once  more  I  stood  a  dreamer 

The  waste  weeds  among. 
Doubt,  and  pain,  and  grief  extremer, 

Seemed  to  fall  away  j 
But  a  dim  voluptuous  sorrow 
Smote  and  thrilled  my  fancy  thoro', 

Gazing  over  bond  and  bay  j 
Saying,  "  Thou,  0  mournful  River  ! 

As  of  old  dost  wind  and  waste  ; 
Falling  down  the  reef  for  ever, 

Rustling  with  a  sound  of  haste 
Through  the  dry-fringed  meadow-bottom  ; 

But  my  hands,  aside  thy  bed, 
Gather  now  no  gems  of  Autumn, 

Or  the  dainties  Summer  shed  : 
By  the  margin  hoarsely  flowing, 
Yellow-dock  and  garget  growing, 
Drifts  of  wreck,  and  muddy  stain, 
By  river- wash,  and  dregs  of  rain. 
Yet,  though  bound  in  desolation, 

Bound  and  locked,  thy  waters  pour, 
With  a  cry  of  exultation 


22  PICOMEGAN. 

Uncontained  by  shore  and  shore ; 
With  a  booming,  deep  vibration, 

In  its  wind  my  cheek  is  wet,— • 
But,  unheeding  woe  or  warning, 

Thou  through  all  the  barren  hours 

Seem'st  to  sing  of  Summer  yet ; 
Thou,  with  voice  all  sorrow  scorning, 

Babblest  on  of  leaves  and  flowers 
Wearily,  whilst  I  go  mourning 

O'er  thy  fallen  banks  and  bowers ; 
O'er  a  life  small  grace  adorning, 

With  lost  aims,  and  broken  powers 
Wreck-flung,  like  these  wave-torn  beaches, 

Tear-trenched,  as  by  .winter  showers. 
But  a  faith  thy  music  teaches, 

Might  I  to  its  knowledge  climb, 
Still  the  yearning  heart  beseeches 

Truth ;  as  when  in  summer  time 
Through  these  dells  I  vaguely  sought  her, 

In  the  dreamy  summer  time.*' 
So  the  margin  paths  and  reaches 
Once  again  I  left  to  roam, 


PICOMEQAN,  23 

Left  behind  the  roaring  water, 

Eddy-knots,  and  clots  of  foam  ; 
But  it  still  disturbed  me  ever, 

As  a  dream  no  reason  yields, 
From  the  ruin  of  the  river, 

Winding  up  through  empty  fields, 
That  I  could  not  gather  something 

Of  the  meaning  and  belief, 
In  the  voice  of  its  triumphing, 

Or  the  wisdom  of  its  grief. 


24 


How  strange  a  paradox  is  human  life ! — 
Strange  in  repose,  yet  stranger  in  its  strife  ; 
A  walking  dream,  or  fierce  and  barren  toil : 
A  shifting  fixture,  an  enduring  change  j 
Tempting,  to  baffle, — promising,  to  foil, 
Strange  in  the  garnered  sum,  and  in  the  instance 
strange. 

Strange,  that  a  man,  whose  soul  the  earthquake- 
throb 

Of  Genius,  like  a  buried  Titan's  sob, 
Has  lifted  into  stillness  and  sunshine, 
Should,  amid  sordid  fogs,  and  earthly  jars 
That  beat  about  his  base,  again  decline, 
In  place  of  gazing  heaven,  and  striking  to  the 
stars  ! 


THE  SUPERLATIVE.  25 

Stranger,  that  Woman,  clad  in  sanctity 
Of  gentleness  and  love,  with  modesty 
To  guard  her  vesture  like  a  golden  zone, 
Should  rend  away  her  robes,  and  shameless  stand 
In  the  world's  eye  ;  a  wrangler,  to  disown 
Her  sex,  and  make  it  monstrous  in  an  outraged 
land ! 

But  strangest  still,  of  these,  or  aught  beside 

Of  human  crime  or  folly,  is  the  pride 

Bora  of  the  gentlest  gift  we  reach  from  Heaven ; 

Where  hearts  like  these,  stung  by  its  bitterness, 

Cease  from  each  other,  wild  to  be  forgiven, 

Yet  proud  to  nurse  an  unrelenting  wretchedness ! 


26 


0  It  tt  <[t  S- 


L 

THE  starry  flower,  the  flower-like  stars  that  fade 
And  brighten  with  the  daylight  and  the  dark, — 
The  bluet  in  the  green  I  faintly  mark, 
And  glimmering  crags  with  laurel  overlaid, 
Even  to  the  Lord  of  light,  the  Lamp  of  shade, 
Shine  one  to  me, — the  least,  still  glorious  made 
As  crowned  moon,  or  heaven's  great  hierarch. 
And,  so,  dim  grassy  flower,  and  night-lit  spark, 
Still  move  me  on  and  upward  for  the  True } 
Seeking  through  change,  growth,  death,  in  new 

and  old. 

The  full  in  few,  the  statelier  in  the  less, 
With  patient  pain  ;  always  remembering  this,— 
His  hand,  who  touched  the  sod  with  showers  of  gold, 
Stippled  Orion  on  the  midnight  blue. 


SONNETS.  27 


H, 

AND  so,  as  this  great  sphere  (now  turning  slow 
Up  to  the  light  from  that  abyss  of  stars, 
Now  wheeling  into  gloom  through  sunset  bars) — 
With  all  its  elements  of  form  and  flow, 
And  life  in  life;  where  crowned,  yet  blind,  must  go 
The  sensible  king, — is  but  a  Unity 
Compressed  of  motes  impossible  to  know ; 
Which  worldliko  yet  in  deep  analogy, 
Have  distance,  march,  dimension,  and  degree ; 
So  the  round  earth — which  we  the  world  do  call- 
Is  but  a  grain  in  that  that  mightiest  swells, 
Whereof  the  stars  of  light  are  particles, 
As  ultimate  atoms  of  one  infinite  Ball, 
On  which  God  moves,  and  treads  beneath  his  feet 
the  All  I 


28 


How  shall  I  array  my  love  ? 
How  should  I  arrange  my  fair  ? 
Leave  her  standing  white  and  silent 
In  the  richness  of  her  hair  ?  » 

Motion  silent,  beauty  bare 
In  the  glory  of  her  hair  ? 
Or,  for  place  and  drapery, 
Ravage  land,  and  sack  the  sea  ? 

Or  from  darkest  summer  sky, 
When  the  white  belts,  riding  high, 
Cut  the  clear  like  ribs  of  pearl, 
On  the  eastern  upland's  curl, 
In  the  time  of  dusk  and  dew 
Tear  away  a  breadth  of  blue  ? 


THE  QUESTION,  29 

Touched  from  twilight's  rosy  bars, 
With  each  twinkling  tuft  of  stars, 
And,  shaking  out  the  glints  of  gold, 
Catch  her  softly  from  the  cold  ? — 
Catch,  and  lift  her  to  the  cloud, 
Where  to  crown  her,  passing  proud, 
Gliding,  glistening  woods  of  June, 
Beach  the  rain-ring  from  the  moon  ? 

Or — to  fold  her  warmer-wise — 
Let  me  try,  in  garh  and  guise 
Gathered  from  this  mortal  globe ; 
Roll  her  beauty  in  a  robe 
Of  the  Persian  lilach  stain, 
Purple,  dim  with  filigrane  ; 
Belted-in  with  rarer  red 
Than  India's  leaf  ere  figured, 
Put  a  crown  upon  her  head ! 
Then  to  lead  her,  high  and  cold, 
WTiere,  from  a  step  of  silver  rolled 
A  crimson  floweth  on  the  floor ; 
Lite  a  river  riding  o'er 


30  THE  QUESTION, 

Pearl,  and  priceless  marbles  bright,-— 
Onyx,  myrrhine,  marcasite. 
And  jasper  green ! — nor  these  alone, 
But  the  famed  Phengites  stone,-~ 
And  leading  upward  to  the  throne. 
Prop  and  pillar,  roof  and  rise, 
All  ashake  with  drops  and  dyes, 
And  the  diamond's  precious  eyes ; 
And  she,  as  if  a  sudden  storm 
Had  fallen  upon  her  face  and  form ; 
Diamonds  like  raindrops  rare, 
Pearls  like  hailstones  in  her  hair  5 
In  the  lamplight's  ruddy  stream, 
Jewels  crossed  with  jewels  gleam 
On  jewels,  jewel-circled  there  ; 
While,  round  her  wrists  and  ankles  bare, 
Gems  of  jewels  glimpse  and  gaze,— 
Hyacinth,  rose-stone,  idocrase* 

Or  she  stealeth,  soft  arrayed 
Like  a  white  Hoemonian  maid 
Winding  under  cypress  shade  ; 


THE  QUESTION.  31 

Cedar  shade,  and  paths  of  green, 
With  porch  and  pillar,  white  between ; 
Amaranth  eyes  do  mine  behold, 
Hair  like  the  pale  marigold ; 
Dreamily  she  seems  to  me 
Hero,  or  Herodice ! 
With  a  sidelong  motion  sweet, 
Thoro'  flowers  she  draws  her  feet ; 
This  way  now  the  ripples  come, — 
Shower  myrtles,  myrrh,  and  gum, 
With  heliochryse  and  amomum  1 

Ah  !  not  so,  New  England's  flower ! 
Separate  must  her  beauty  bo 
From  stars  of  old  mythology, — 
Priestesses,  or  Crysophone, 
Nor  fairy  garb,  nor  kingly  dower, 
May  fit  her  in  her  radiant  hour ; 
Free  and  bold  her  steps  must  flow, 
All  men  see  her  come  and  go  j 
At  her  feet  the  planet  lies, 
Day  and  night  are  in  her  eyes, 


32  THE  QUESTION* 

Over  her  the  star-flag  strewn : 

Lo !  she  standeth  there  alone, 

Pride,  in  her  dark  glances,  king ! 

Love,  her  cheek  rose-colouring ; 

In  a  garden  all  her  own, 

Lo  !  she  standeth,  crowned  on 

With  rare  roses,  round  her  drawn 

Texture  like  the  wehs  of  dawn 

On  the  rose-beds  lingering, 

While  my  heart  to  her  I  bring ; 

Heart  and  garden  all  her  own — 

What,  in  truth,  cares  such  a  one, 

Though  my  arm  could  round  her  throw 

Gleam  of  gods,  or  crowns  bestow? 

Or  though  the  old  gods  could  confer 

All  godlike  gifts  and  grace  on  her  ? 

The  young  Medusa's  locks  divine, 

Pelops*  shoulder  eburnine, 

Lips  that  drew  the  Ismenean  bees, 

Tears  of  the  Heliades, 

Dropped  into  shimmering  shells  that  be 

About  the  indraught  of  the  sea. 


THE  QUESTION, 

Tho  river-riches  of  tho  sphere, 
All  that  the  dark  sea-bottoms  boar, 
Tho  wide  earth's  green  convexity, 
The  inexhaustible  blue  sky, 
Hold  not  a  prize,  so  proud,  so  high, 
That  it  could  grace  her,  gay  or  grand, 
By  garden-gale  and  rose-breath  fanned  ; 
Or  as  to-night  I  saw  her  stand, 
Lovely  in  the  meadow-land, 
With  a  clover  in  her  hand. 


34 


i. 

IN  the  darkening  silence,— 
When  the  hilltops  dusk  and  fail, 
And  the  purple  damps  of  evening  now 

No  longer  edge  the  vale ; 
When  the  faint  flesh-tinted  clouds  have  parted 
To  the  westward,  one  by  one,— 
In  the  glimmering  silence, 
I  love  to  steal  alone 
By  river  and  by  runside, 
Through  knots  of  aspens  gray, 
And  hearken  for  the  voices 
Of  a  music  ceased  away. 

2. 

About  the  winding  water, 
And  among  the  bulrush-spears, 


TWILIGHT,  35 

Like  the  wind  of  empty  Autumn,  comes 

Their  sorrow  in  my  ears  ; 
Like  the  wind  of  hollow  Autumn  blowing 
From  swamp  and  shallow  dim, 
Comes  the  sorrow  of  the  voices ; 
Whilst  along  the  weedy  brim 
I  follow  in  the  evenfall, 
And  darkly  reason  why 
Those  whispers  breathe  so  mournfully 
From  depths  of  days  gone  by, 

8, 

Is  it  that,  in  the  stealing 
Of  the  tender,  tearful  tones, 
The  knowledge  stirs,  that  bowers  and  homes 

Are  dust  and  fallen  stones, 
Where  once  they  sang  ? — that  on  lips  so  loving 
Settled  a  still  gray  sleep, 
With  tears,  though  mindful  memory 
Still  brings  them  from  the  deep  ? 
Is  it  that  Conscience  muses, 
"  'Twas  for  thee  their  high  hearts  heaved  ?  " 

3—a 


36  TWILIGHT. 

Or  is  it  BO,  that  I  am  not 
What  those  best  hearts  believed  ? 

4, 

0  falling  stream  !  0  voices  ! 
0  grief  !  0  gaining  night  ! 
Ye  bring  no  comfort  to  the  heart  : 

Ye  but  again  unite 

In  a  brooding  gloom,  and  a  windy  wail  ; 
And  a  sorrow,  cold  like  Death, 
Steals  from  the  river-border, 
Falls  in  the  dampening  breath 
Of  the  unavailing  night-wind,— 
Falls  with  the  strength  of  tears, 
And  an  unreal  bitterness, 
On  the  life  of  latter  years. 


I  see  the  flags  of  the  River, 
And  the  moss-green  alder  bark, 
While  faintly  the  far-set  village  lights 
Flash  through  the  rainy  dark  j 


TWILIGHT.  37 

And  the  willow  drops  to  the  dipping  water, — 
But  why,  from  shelf  and  shore, 
Comes  the  trouble  of  the  voices 
Of  the  loved  of  heretofore  ? 
They  never  knew  these  shadows, 
And  the  river's  sighing  flow 
Swept  not  their  ears  in  those  dim  days, 
Nor  lulled  them  long  ago, 

6, 

Sunk  are  the  ships,  or  shattered, — 
Yet,  as 'mid  the  burying  foam, 
On  the  wild  sea-bar,  beat  here  and  there, 

As  the  surges  go  and  come, 
Pieces  and  parts  of  a  broken  vessel ; 
So,  to  this  stranger  stream 
And  its  still  woods,  come  drifting  in, 
Thought,  memory,  doubt,  and  dream, 
Of  the  noble  hearts  that  sailed  with  me  :     . 
Here  to  this  desert  spot 
Gome  their  dim  ghosts,  where  they,  indeed, 
Were  known  and  nurtured  not. 


38  TWILIGHT. 

7. 

'Tis  the  heart,  the  heart,  remembers, 
And  with  wild  and  passionate  will 
Peoples  the  woods  and  vales,  and  pours 

Its  cry  round  stream  and  hill. 
I  look  o'er  the  hills  to  the  mournful  morning, 
And  it  whispers  still  of  home, — * 
And,  in  the  darkening  of  the  day, 
Impels  me  forth  to  roam, 
With  a  desolate  and  vague  desire, 
Like  the  evil  spirit's  quest ; 
Who  walketh  through  dry  places, 
Seeking  still,  nor  finding  rest. 

8. 

Yet,  in  the  gathering  silence, 
When  the  hilltops  faint  and  fail, 
And  the  tearful  tints  of  twilight  now 

No  longer  edge  the  vale ; 
When  the  crimson-faded  clouds  have  parted 
To  the  westward,  one  hy  one,— • 
In  the  passionate  silence, 


TWILIGHT, 
i 

I  love  to  steal  alone 
By  river  and  by  runside, 
Through  knots  of  aspens  gray, 
And  hearken  for  the  voices 
Of  a  music  ceased  away. 


39 


40 


HER  beauty  came  to  his  distrustful  heart 
As  comes  a  hud  to  flower,  in  bracing  air; 
For  its  perception  had  been  dulled  to  sleep, 
By  disappointment,  doubt,  and  worldly  wear, 
The  fear  of  wrong,  and  coldness  everywhere : 
Yet,  while  unguessed,  an  impulse  seemed  to  part 
From  that  pale  presence ;  calling  him  to  keep 
A  watch  on  Beauty's  beamings,  powers,  and  tones, — 
From   blossoming  dawn,  down  to  the  half-filled 

flower, 

Or  bird,  or  buried  brook :  all  that  Life  owns, 
Or  Nature  gives,  grew  holier  in  that  power. 

An  influence  still  entreating  day  by  day, 
Yet  still  unlike  the  tricks  of  female  guile, 
Not  forward,  but  to  reach  and  reconcile 
Through  childlike  grace  and  plain  sincerity ; 


KLIDORE, 


41 


And  teaching  him,  by  such  innocence  of  display, 

That  light  of  outward  loveliness  to  see. 

Scarce  felt  at  first,  with  Time's  increasing  worth 

The  faint  eyes  deepened,  and  the  lips  awoke, 

Till,  from  a  clouded  brow,  all  beauty  broke, 

And  bade  him  own  a  wonder  of  the  earth, — 

A  graceful  mind,  most  gracefully  inclosed  j 

A  woman  fair  and  young,  but  softly  free 

From  the  world's  wisdom,  and  hypocrisy  j 

Or  restless  spite,  or  curiosity  j 

Gentle  and  glad,  yet  armed  in  constancy, 

With  breathings  heavenward,  and  a  faith  composed. 

Such  is  the  Beauty  dowered  not  to  deceive  ; 
Such  u-as  the  Beauty  that  dispersed  his  fear, 
And  smiled,  and  said,  "  0  world-sick  heart,  be- 

lieve ! " 

Doubting,  he  saw  all  doubts  and  bodings  grim, 
Like  night  dissolving,  break  and  disappear, 
While  Joy  and  Trust  relumed  his  vision  dim ;     • 
Such  Joy  as  clears  the  wood-lost  wanderer's  eight, 
Who,  pushing  darkly  on,  with  body  bowed, 


42  ELIDORE. 

Through  trunks  and  brush  discerns  a  peering  light, 
And  sees  it  shine,  a  star  of  safety  soon ; 
Or  like  a  stormy  moonrise,  when  the  moon 
Grows  from  some  blackened  ridge  of  thundercloud, 
And  slow  perfects  herself  in  wondering  eyes 
That  brighten  with  her  round :  so  sweet  surprise 
Brightened  his  look,  as  that  strange  beauty  beamed 
To  illume  a  heart,  that  had  its  grace,  its  power, 
misdeemed. 


43 


HEBE,  where  tlie  River  wheels 

Through  counties  called  the  midland, 
Of  this  fair  tract  the  flower  and  crown, 

Once  stood  a  wild  of  woodland  : 
But  now  no  belt  of  brown, 

Beech,  alder,  ash,  or  oaken, 
Is  left ;  and  Autumn's  Lamp  reveals 

All  barren,  bald,  and  broken. 

A  slope  of  rugged  marl, 

For  copso  and  dreamy  dingle, 
The  larches  burned,  the  birches  flayed, 

Or  gone  for  beam  and  shingle ; 
The  beeches  in  whose  shade 

The  hunter  shaped  his  paddle, 
With  scrawly  bush  and  brushwood-snarl, 

Have  vanished,  stock  and  staddle. 


44  THE  CLEARING. 

Beside  the  Run  whose  flow 

The  season  touched  with  flowers, 
Or  softly  staunched  with  fallen  leaves, — 

Or  fed  with  perfumed  showers, 
A  shirt  with  tattered  sleeves 

Slaps  in  the  gust  of  summer, 
And,  vaguely,  soapy  breathings  blow 

Across  the  vagrant  roamer. 

Here,  where  the  golden  grace 

Of  moonlight  fell  in  shatters, 
By  dark,  a  dingy,  flickering  line 

Frets  on  the  tossing  waters  ; 
For  here,  where  then  the  pine 

Tanned  with  his  droppings  scanty, 
This  rock,  the  Poet's  resting-place, 

Is  propt,  an  Irish  shanty. 

Oh  !  not  upon  the  edge 
Of  grove,  or  ranging  river, 

At  eve,  or  in  the  general  day 
Where'er  thy  steps  endeavour, 


THE  CLEARING,  45 

Shall  tbee  such  rest  delay, — 

0  dreamer  in  the  Shadow  ! 
By  axe  and  beetle,  blast  and  wedge, 

Now  torn  from  marge  and  meadow, 

Thou,  whom  no  sorrow  sears, 

Nor  sour  mischances  harden, 
Wilt  seek  no  more  the  pitcher-plant 

To  deck  thy  slender  garden, 
In  this  thy  holy  haunt : 

Gone  are  the  happy  bowers  ! 
And  thou,  apart,  in  other  years 

Must  rove  for  other  flowers. 

The  Spring  wind  will  not  come 

Now  like  a  pleasant  rumour, 
Nor  the  long  hot  song  of . harvest-fly 

To  sting  the  ear  of  Summer ; 
And  when  the  woods  are  dry, 

Or  red  with  Autumn's  dawning, 
This  bay  will  miss  a  music  from 

Dim  arch,  or  crimson  awning. 


! 
46  THE  CLEARING. 

Yet  when  November  rains 

Shall  settle  on  the  forest, 
And  wash  the  colour  from  the  wood, 

His  darlings  from  the  florist, 
'Twill  seem  a  glimpse  of  good ; 

A  compensation  tender, — 
Remembering  that  to  this  remains 

No  beauty  now  to  render ; 

And  that — for  what  we  love, 

Though  doubt  and  dread  benumb  ua,— 
The  gracious  Past,  the  yielded  boon, 

Can  ne'er  be  taken  from  us. 
Then  let  us  hold  what's  gone, 

And  hug  each  greener  minute, 
Though  shanties  smoke  in  every  cove, 

And  Paddies  rule  the  senate. 
, 
Yes,  though  for  belt  and  bower     . 

The  hard,  dry  tangle  bristles, 
And  the  bloomy  hollows  swarm  and  burn 

With  tick-seed,  tares,  and  thistles, 


THE  CLEARING,  47 

And  the  River  runs  forlorn, — - 

We  go  not  unrequited, 
Whilst  memory  glasses  heaven  and  flower, 

Wherein  our  lovo  delighted. 

And  may  this  Picture  gay, 

Deep-rooted  in  my  bosom, 
The  blue  above  for  ever  seal, 

For  ever  shade  the  blossom ; 
Unswept  by  worldly  steel, 

Or  Sorrow's  fire  and  powder, 
Give  lordlier  off  the  limb,  and  sway 

The  surgy  summit  prouder  ! 

But  if,  through  bough  and  butt, 

Time's  dull  steel  chops  and  craunches, 
And  lumber  lies  for  noble  stems, 

And  wreck  for  wreathing  branches, 
And  all  the  glory  dims,— 

May  I,  for  deep-loved  Nature, 
Though  brute  his  being,  and  baso  his  hut, 

Replace  it  with  the  Creature  I 


48 


go  th<    $Ut*r. 

'Tis  nearly  night, — a  healing  night, 

As  Carro's  words  last-spoken, 
"  And  will  the  day  he  hlue  and  bright  ? 

A  whole  hright  day,  unbroken  ?  " 
You  ask  of  me,  who  walk  to  learn ; 

Regardless  wealth  amassing, 
And  take  no  charge  of  tide  or  turn, 

And  scarcely  keep,  in  passing, 

A  watch  on  wind  and  weather-gleam, — 

Of  these  things  no  recorder ; 
Yet  o'er  the  dark  I  almost  seem 

To  see  its  golden  border* 
Behind  the  night  is  hid  the  day  i 

I  cannot  find  the  reason 
In  rule  or  rhyme ;  hut  all  things  say 

'Twill  be  a  day  of  season. 


TO  THE  RIVER.  49 

And  Cairo,  too,  will  softer  smile, 

And  Cairo's  frown  be  rarer, 
But  leave  your  fair  a  little  while,-— 

You'll  find  her  all  the  fairer,— 
To  walk  with  me  ;  not  by  the  road, 

(A  little  breathing  give  her,) 
And  we  will  keep  the  winding  wood 

Until  we  strike  the  River, 

And  I  will  tell,  where  Love,  though  loath, 

A  fuller  harvest  heapeth 
Than  yours :  yet  I  have  known  the  growth, 

And  followed  where  he  reapeth  ; 
And  this,  though  now  to  heaven  you  cast, 

Appealing,  death-defiant, 
A  passion  pitiless  and  vast 

As  love  of  god  or  giant ! 

For  one  is  beat  with  blasting  tears, 
And  burned  with  raging  weather, 

And  reapt  in  fiery  haste,— -the  ears 
Half-ripe,  dead-ripe,  or  neither  j 

4 


50  TO  THE  RIVER. 

The  other  hangs  with  dim  rain  prest, 
All  greenly  wet,  and  groweth 

For  ever  in  the  realms  of  rest, 
Nor  end  nor  seedtime  knoweth. 

Yet  some,  who  cannot  help  to  see, 

Refuse  the  day,  and  many, 
Where  faintest  strokes  of  sunlight  be, 

Peep  hard  for  pin  and  penny, 
Who  sneer  at  what  the  meadow  spreads, 

And  what  the  woods  environ  ; 
And,  like  the  sons  of  Use,  with  heads, 

And  hands,  and  feet  of  iron, 

Would  grasp  the  Titan's  scythe  to  wound  ; 

To  sweep  tho  hill  asunder, 
And  shear  the  groves  at  one  swing-round, 

And  tread  the  Muses  under  ! 
Yet,  still  best-pleased  amid  the  roar, 

I  find  myself  a  dehtor, 
Love  men  not  lesser  than  before, 

And  Nature  more  than  better. 


TO  THE  RIVER,  51 

There  be,  with  brains  no  folding  shroud 

Of  grief,  can  wean  or  widow 
Of  vacant  mirth,  who  bear  the  cloud, 

Yet  shrink  from  shade  of  shadow  ; 
Would  flit  for  ever  in  the  shine, 

Despite  of  burns  and  blisters, 
And  add  another  to  the  Nine, 

More  foolish  than  her  sisters : 

A  denary  of  graceful  girls, 
,    That  carol,  dance,  and  sidle 
Through  chaffering  crowds,  and  giddying  whirls 

Of  Life,  all  loud  and  idle, 
But  I,  who  love  the  graver  Muse, 

And  Minna  more  than  Brenda, 
Walk  not  with  these,  nor  find  my  views 

Writ  down  in  their  credenda. 

Why,  for  some  peep  of  meaning  clear, 

Should  we  ourselves  deliver 
Up  to  the  stream,  which  even  here 

Hoars  past  us  like  a  River  ? 

4— a 


52  TO  THE  BIVER. 

But  bend,  and  let  the  burly  pass,—- 
Pedant  and  fop,  cbance-bitters  ! 

Whilst,  in  the  fields  of  faded  grass, 
The  cricket  ticks  and  twitters ; — 

With  those  that  loose  the  languid  page, 

Nor  let  the  life  o'erflow  it, 
But  pick  and  copy,  sap  and  sage  : 

Part  \vit,  and  parcel  poet, 
They  follow  fast  some  empiric, 

Nor  heed  for  watch  or  warden ; 
But  go  in  crowds,  and  settle  thick 

Like  crows  in  Nature's  garden. 

They  chew  the  sweet,  and  suck  the  BOUT, 

And  know  not  which  is  sweeter,— 
The  cowslip,  and  calypso  flower, 

Bald  breath,  and  burning  metre, 
Milton,  or  Skelton,— all  is  one  ; 

None  darkle  dim  where  none  shine  t 
And  with  a  blindness  of  their  own 

They  blot  the  breeze  and  sunshine. 


TO  THE  RIVER.  53 

Oh,  might  I  plunge  beneath  the  flow 

For  one  forgetful  minute, 
And,  leaving  all  my  dreams  below, 

Rise  like  a  bubble  in  it, 
And  sweep  along  to  lose  myself 

With  all  the  current  seizes  ; 
But  in  the  blows  of  brass  and  delf 

I  fear  to  go  to  pieces  ! 

Perhaps  my  hand  would  urge  the  cup  | 

To  press  apart  a  nation, 
Or,  where  the  Fountain  forces  up, 

Drop  tears  of  congelation ; 
Or  pull  with  them  that  strain  to  drag 

The  chords  of  Union  tauter, 
Stream  to  the  poles  with  club  and  flag, 

And  crossed  with  sacred  water. 

But  hold !  nor  cloud  our  night  with  these : 
Why  should  we  crowd  or  quarrel  ? 

Look !  in  the  west  the  Golden  Bees  - 
Hang  o'er  the  mountain  laurel ; 


54  TO  THE  RIVER* 

And,  see !  in  every  spot  of  wet, 
The  coltsfoot  groups  and  glistens ; 

While,  with  a  dew,— the  holiest  yet,— 
Young  Night  her  children  christens. 

Why  should  I  set  my  feeble  strength 

A  bitter  blame  to  cancel, 
Or  hold  a  traitor  up  at  length, 

Or  tear  away  a  tinsel, 
Or  beat  about  for  bribe  or  boon  J 

When  here,  in  pool  and  shallow, 
I  see  the  fragment  of  a  moon, 

Rimmed  with  a  fragment  halo  ? 


PART   II. 


£oul  that  out  of  $fetur?'s 


i. 

A  SOUL  that  out  of  Nature's  deep 
From  inner  fires  had  birth  ; 

Yet  not  as  rocks  or  rosebuds  peep  : 
Nor  came  it  to  the  earth 


A  drop  of  rain  at  random  blown  ; 

A  star-point  burning  high, 
Lit  in  the  dark,  and  as  alone 

As  Lyra  in  the  sky  : 


56  A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OF 

m. 
Nor  ushered  in  with  stormy  air, 

Sea-shock,  or  earthquake-jars  j 
Nor  born  to  fame  beneath  some  rare 

Conspiracy  of  stars  j 

IV. 

Nor  fortune-crowned  with  benefits  s 

The  life  was  larger  lent, 
Made  up  of  many  opposites 

In  contradiction  blent : — 

v, 
A  nature  affable  and  grand, 

Yet  cold  as  headland  snow, 
Largo-handed,  liberal  to  demand, 

Though  still  to  proffer  slow ; 

VI. 

That  shunned  to  share  the  roaring  cup, 
The  toast,  and  cheerings  nine, 

Nor  cared  to  sit  alone  to  sup 
The  pleasure  of  the  wine  ; 


NATURE'S  DEEP,  57 

VII. 

Yet  genial  oft  by  flash  and  fit ; 

High  manners,  courage  mild, — 
God  gave  him  these,  and  savage  wit 

As  to  an  Indian  child  : 

VIII, 

And  gave  him  more  than  this  indeed, — 

The  wisdom  to  descry 
A  weathercock  in  the  waving  weed, 

A  clock-face  in  the  sky. 

IX, 

Bat  ho,  amid  these  bowers  and  dales 

A  larger  life-breath  drew, 
Beneath  more  cordial  sunshine,  gales, 

And  skies  of  sounder  blue, 

x. 

Than  wait  on  all.    Beside  the  brook, 

With  far  forgetful  eye, 
Or  toward  the  deep  hills,  would  he  look, 

Watching  the  glory  die  ; 


68  A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OF 

•, 

XI. 

Brooding  in  dim  solicitude 

On  earlier,  other  times, 
And  yon  dark-purple  wing  of  wood 

That  o'er  the  mountain  climbs  j 

XII. 

And  fancies  thick  like  flower-buds  bright ; 

Rare  thoughts  in  affluence  rank, 
Came  at  the  onset  of  the  light, 

Nor  with  the  sunset  sank* 

xm, 
He  slept  not,  but  the  dream  had  way. 

And  his  watch  abroad  was  cast 
With  the  earliest  light  of  the  earliest  day ; 

And,  when  the  light  fell  fast, 

xrv. 
He  stood  in  the  river-solitudes 

To  mark  the  daylight  go ; 
And  low  in  the  dusk  of  the  wailing  woods 

He  heard  the  night-hawk  blow. 


NATURE'S  DEEP.  59 

xv. 

The  night-hawk,  and  the  whippoonvill 

Across  the  plashes  dim, 
Calling  her  mate  from  bower  and  hill, 

Made  prophecy  for  him  j 

XVI. 

The  night-hawk  and  the  bird  bereaved, 

His  airy  calendars, 
He  stood;  till  night  had,  unperceived, 

Surrounded  him  with  stars, 

XVII, 

Oh !  dear  the  look  of  upward  eyes 

Lifted  with  pleading  might, 
A  smile  to  bless  and  humanize, 

A  hand  to  fold  aright ; 

xvm, 
A  silver  voice  to  lead  and  lull ; 

Slight  step,  and  streamy  hair, — 
But,  oh !  she  was  too  beautiful 

That  he  should  call  her  fair. 


A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OF 
XIX* 

A  love  to  pay,  a  life  to  give, 
Was  hers, — for  this  slie  strove ; 

And  lie,  too,  loved,  and  would  not  live 
To  live  out  of  her  love. 

xx. 

And  childhood  came  his  smile  beneath, 

And  lingered  hour  on  hour, 
With  sweepy  lids,  and  innocent  breath 

Like  the  grape-hyacinth  flower. 

XXI. 

For  this,  for  all,  his  heart  was  full ; 

Yet,  to  the  deeper  mind, 
All  outward  passion  seemed  to  dull 

That  inmost  sense  refined 

XXII. 

That  broods  and  feeds  where  few  have  trod ; 

And  seeks  to  pass  apart, 
Imaging  nature,  man,  and  God, 

In  silence  in  the  heart. 


NATURE'S  DEEP,  61 

xxra. 
Ho  saw — for  to  that  secret  eye 

God's  hidden  things  were  spread — : 
The  wiser  world  in  darkness  lie, 

And  Faith  by  Falsehood  led, 

XXIV, 

Virtue  and  Envy,  side  by  side ; 

Blind  Will  that  walks  alone  j 
And  mighty  throngs  that  come  and  glide, 

Unknowing  and  unknown ; 

xxv, 

Great  lights !  but  quenched ;  strength,  foresight,  skill, 

Gone  without  deed  or  name ; 
And  happy  accidents  that  still 

Misplace  the  wreaths  of  fame  ; 

XXVI. 

Religion,  but  a  bruited  word 

'Twixt  foes  who  difference  view 
Between  our  Saviour,  God  the  Lord, 

And  Jesus  Christ  the  Jew ! 


62  A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OP 

xxvn. 
Yet  unto  all,  one  wall  and  fold ; 

One  bed  that  all  must  share, — 
The  miser  brooding  holy  gold, 

The  fool,  and  spendthrift  heir ; 

xxvm. 

Still  through  the  years  the  wrinkled  chuff 

Acre  to  acre  rolled ; 
And  ho,  too,  will  have  land  enough 

"When  his  mouth  is  filled  with  mould. 

XXIX. 

And  vaster  visions  did  he  win 
From  cloud,  and  mountain  bars, 

And  revelations  that  within 
Fell  like  a  storm  of  stars ! 

XXX, 

Yet  checked  and  crossed  by  doubt  and  night : 

Dim  gulfs,  and  solitudes 
Of  the  deep  mind  ;  or  warmth  and  light 

Broke  from  ita  shifting  moods, 


NATURE'S  DEEP.  63 

XXXI, 

As  when  in  many-weathered  March 
May-buds  break  up  through  snow, 

And,  spilt  like  milk,  beneath  the  larch 
The  little  bluets  blow  j 

XXXII. 

Beneath  the  lilac  and  the  larch, 

In  many  a  splash  and  spot ; 
Nor  belting  sea,  nor  heaven's  blue  arch, 

Bound  in  where  these  were  not — 

XXXIII. 

With  Love  and  Peace  :  yet  strangely  sank 

Cold  sorrow  on  his  soul, 
For  human  wisdom,  and  the  blank 

Summation  of  the  whole, 

xxxrv. 
Nor  seemed  it  fit,  that  one,  unnerved 

And  faint,  should  rouse  the  earth ; 
Or  build  with  those  whose  zeal  had  served 

But  to  incense  his  mirth, 


64  A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OF 

XXXV. 

Troubled  to  tears,  he  stood  and  gazed, — 

Unknowing  where  to  weep, 
To  spend  his  cries  o'er  fabrics  razed, 

Or  a  safe  silence  keep ; 

XXXVI. 

Renouncing  human  life  and  lore  ; 

Love's  calm,  and  love's  excess, 
Experience  and  allegiance,  for 

A  higher  passiveness. 

XXXVlIn 

»      So  to  drink  full  of  Nature,  much 

Recipient,  still  to  woo 
Her  windy  walk,  whore  pine-trees  touch 
Against  the  ribby  blue  } 

xxxvni. 
To  find  her  feet  by  singing  rills, 

Adoring  and  alone, — • 
O'er  griiHHy  fields,  to  the  still  hills, 

Her  solemn  seat  and  throne ! 


NATURE'S  DEEP.  65 

xxxix, 

Sore  struggle !  yet,  when  passed,  that  seemed 

A  crowning  conquest  o'er 
Himself  and  human  bands :  he  deemed 

The  victory  more  and  more, 

XL, 

And  like  that  warfare  urged  upon 

Unkingly  lust  and  ease, 
Which  the  fifth  Henry  waged  and  won  ; 

Or  that  Lydiadcs 

XLI, 
Who  left  his  looser  life  with  tears, 

And  in  the  fire  of  youth 
Lived  grave  and  chaste,  Arcadian  years 

And  reigned  ; — kings,  heroes,  both ! 

XLII. 

Ah,  so—but  not  to  him  returned, 
Our  monarch,  meed  like  this, 
But  sterner  kin  his  grief  had  spurned, 
And  bitter  friends  were  his. 

5 


66  A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OF 

XLIII, 
Distrust  and  Fear  beside  him  took, 

With  Shame,  their  hateful  stands ; 
And  Sorrow  passed,  and  struck  the  book 

Of  knowledge  from  his  hands. 

/ 

XLIV. 

He  saw,  with  absent,  sorrowing  heed, 
All  that  had  looked  so  fair ; 

His  secret  walk  was  wild  with  weed, 
His  gardens  washed  and  bare  I 

XLV. 

The  very  woods  were  filled  with  strife  ; 

Fierce  beaks  and  warring  wings 
Clashed  in  his  face ;  the  heart  and  life 

Of  those  deep-hidden  springs, 

XLVI. 
No  more  his  spirit  cared  to  quaff ; 

Great  Nature  lost  her  place, — 
Pushed  from  her  happy  heights,  and  half 

Degraded  of  her  grace. 


NATURE'S  DEEP.  67 

XLVH. 
And  so  he  saw  the  morning  white, 

As  eyes  with  tears  opprest, 
The  last  heart-breaking  gleam  of  light 

That  dies  along  the  West, 

XL  VIII, 

And  so  he  saw  the  opening  flower 

Dry  in  the  August  sheaf, 
And  on  green  Summer's  top  and  tower, 

Only  the  turning  leaf; 

XLK. 
For  Summer's  darkest  green,  explored, 

Betrays  the  crimson  hlight  j 
As,  in  the  heart  of  darkness  cored, 

"Red  sparks  and  seeds  of  light 

L, 

And  lightning  lurk,  ready  to  leap 

Abroad,  beyond  reclaim ; 
To  bathe  a  world  in  splendour  deep, 

Or  snatch  in  folding  flame, 

5- a 


68  A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OP 

LI* 
He  saw,  with  manners,  age,  and  mode, 

Opinion  rise  and  sink, 
The  jarring  clash  of  creed  and  code, 

And  knew  not  what  to  think ; — • 

Ln. 
Beliefs  of  ritual  and  of  race ; — 

And  hard  it  was  to  tell 
Why  good  should  come  by  gift  of  grace, 

And  wrong  be  chargeable. 

Lin. 
Before  him  burned  attainless  towers  ! 

Behind,  a  comfortless 
Dim  valley,  waste  with  poison-flowers, 

And  weeds  of  barrenness. 

LIV. 
The  early  ray,  the  early  dream, 

Had  vanished  ;  faint  and  chill 
Like  winter,  did  the  morning  stream 

On  woodland.house,  and  hill : 


NATURE'S  DEEP, 


Yet,  as  of  old,  he  ranged  apart 

By  river-bank  and  bed, 
And  mused  in  bitterness  of  heart  ; 

And  to  himself  he  said,  — 

LVI. 
"  Tear  sullen  Monkshood  where  he  stands 

Tall  by  the  garden  walk  ; 
With  burning  pricks  and  venom  -glands, 
Pluck  off  the  nettle's  stalk  j 

LVII. 
Lobelia  from  the  rivage  break, 

With  Arum's  blistering  bell  ; 
And,  over  all,  let  the  bundle  reek 

With  the  smilax'  loathly  smell  ; 

LVIII, 
Fools'  parsley  from  the  graves  of  fools, 

With  deadly  darnels  bring  ; 
Yew,  garget,  dogwood  of  the  pools, 

And  the  fen's  unwholesome  spring  ; 


\ 
70  A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OF 

LIX. 
And  hemlock  pull;  and  snatch  from  bees 

Half-drugged,  the  red-bud  rare, 
And  laurel  5  but  prick  in  with  these 

The  shaft  of  a  lily  fair ; 

LX. 

And  bind  them  up  j  rank  blossom,  sting, 

Bough,  berry,  poison  rife, 
Embodying  and  embleming 

The  gleanings  of  a  life.'* 

LXl. 

Yet  was  not  she,  the  lily-flower, 

'Mid  failings  and  misdeeds, 
The  fruit  of  many  a  scattered  hour, 

Yet  fairer  for  the  weeds  ? 

LXII. 
And  was  she  not,  through  shade  and  shower, 

In  patient  beauty  drest, 
Though  lonely  in  her  place  and  power, 

Enough  to  save  the  rest  ? 


NATURE'S  DEEP,  71 

LXIII. 

Perhaps  ;  yet  darker  gloomed  the  vale, 

And  dawned  the  turrets  fair, 
Beyond  the  height  of  ladder's  scale, 

Or  any  step  of  stair, 

LXIV, 

And  yearned  his  soul  for  sharper  change, — 

And  knowledge  of  the  light ; 
Yet  not  by  station,  staff,  or  range 

Of  human  toil  or  flight, 

LXV, 
Would  he  ascend ;  choosing  alone 

With  grief  to  make  his  bed, 
Like  those  whose  godhead  is  their  own ; 

On  whom  the  curse  is  said, — 

LXVI. 
Who  kindle  to  themselves  a  fire, 

And  in  the  light  thereof 
Walk,  and  are  lost.    But  his  desire 

Was  still  for  wiser  love  ; 


72  A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OB1 

LXVII. 
And  Bought  but  in  the  holy  place ; 

And  scarcely  sought,  but  found 
In  still  reception  :  failing  this, 

All  lifo  in  death  seemed  drowned* 

LXVIII. 

Yet  sometimes,  doubting,  discord-tost, 

Came  voices  to  his  side, — • 
Echoes  of  youth,  and  friendships  lost, 

Or  lost,  or  left  aside. 

LXIX, 

Faces,  wherein  deep  histories  are, 

Began  to  float  and  flee, 
And  hover  darkly,  like  a  far 

Forgotten  memory } 

LXX. 

Dim  gardens,  where  a  silent  creek 
Stole  onward,  margin-mossed ; 

And  walks,  with  here  and  there  a  streak 
Of  dusky  odour  crossed, 


NATURE'S  DEEP.  73 

LXXI. 

Stirring  the  wells  of  tears.     He  saw 

The  vision  of  his  youth, 
With  holy  grief,  with  holy  awe : 

The  temple-towers  of  Truth 

LXXII. 
Broke  nearer ;  like  a  thunder-flash 

Again  came  back  the  dream, 
And  light  in  many  a  bar  and  dash. 

Like  moonlight,  flake,  and  beam, 

LXXIII. 

Or  when  wild  clouds  of  middle  air 

Through  hurrying  gaps  reveal 
Arcturus,  or  the  sailing  star 

That  spurs  Orion's  heel  ;-— 

LXXIV. 
Heaven's  lights !  yet  covered  as  we  look ; 

So,  momently  to  view, 
Came  back  the  sparkle  of  the  brook, 

And  fields  his  childhood  knew  ; 


74  A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OF 

LXXV. 
Fair  faith  and  love,  with  peace  almost ; 

Yet,  in  that  ray  serene, 
He  only  saw  a  glory  lost, 

And  what  he  might  have  been. 

LXXVI. 

The  precious  grains  his  hands  had  spilled 

Had  fallen  to  others  ;  they 
Had  passed  before,  his  place  was  filled, 

And  the  world  rolled  away. 

LXXMI. 
Too  late  he  learned  that  Nature's  parts 

Whereto  we  lean  and  cling, 
Change,  but  as  change  our  human  hearts, 

Nor  grow  by  worshipping ; 

LXXVIII. 

And  that  her  presence,  fair  or  grand, 

In  these  faint  fields  below, 
Importeth  little,  seen  beyond 

Our  welfare,  or  our  woe. 


.    NATURE'S  DEEP.  75 

LXXIX, 

Nor  good  from  ill  can  we  release,— 

But  weigh  the  world  in  full ; 
Not  separate  taken,  part  and  piece, 

But  indiscerptible, 

LXXX. 
In  law  and  limit,  tempests  blow ; 

Tides  swing  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
And  so  the  forest-tree  will  grow 

As  grew  the  tree  before, 

LXXXI, 

Too  late  he  learned  by  land  and  sea 

This  bitter  truth  to  glean, — 
That  he  who  would  know  what  shall  be, 

Must  ponder  what  hath  been ; 

LXXXII. 
Nor  unto  fear  or  falsehood  yield 

His  strength,  the  good  to  baulk ; 
Nor  fold  his  arms  beside  the  field, 

But  with  the  furrow  walk, 


76     A  SOUL  THAT  OUT  OF  NATURE'S  DEEP. 

LXxxin* 
Heady  to  cast  his  grain  ;  and  slower 

To  faint,  more  credulous, 
Believing  well  that  but  by  our 

Own  bands  God  belpetb  us. 

LXXXIV. 

And  who  would  find  out  Windom*»  grot, 
To  make  her  footsteps  his,— 

Must  learn  to  look  where  it  is  not, 
As  well  as  where  it  is. 


77 


' 


ERE  the  first  red-orange  glimmer 

Touched  the  dial  on  the  lawn, 

In  the  earliest  shade,  and  shimmer 

Of  the  dawn; 

When  the  dark  was  growing  dimmer, 
And  the  moon, 'mid  wavy  clouds 
Struggling  for  the  horizon -land, 
Had  vanished  like  a  worn-out  swimmer  ? — 
Feeding  on  the  misty  shrouds, 
Nature's  grief  to  grief  suhorning, 
Stood  a  man  alone  in  sorrow 
On  a  lifted  ledge  of  pines  ; 
Over  mounted  woods,  and  sand, 
Valley,  and  rolling  mountain-lines, 
Watching  for  the  morrow ; — 


78  THE  STRANGER. 

Watching  for  the  daylight, 

In  the  weeping  twilight, 

In  the  anguish  of  the  morning. 

When  first  I  paused  upon  these  barren  bluffs 

Of  westland  Massachusetts,  and  looked  off 

From  mountain -roofs  thatched  by  the   dropping 

pine 

With  his  loose  leaf, — a  natural  water-shed ; — 
Upon  the  hamlet  twinkling  through  the  growth, 
The  river-silver  scattered  in  the  grass, 
And  all  the  Tyrian  hills  !  there  seemed  to  me 
No  spot  so  fair  in  all  the  fair  Estate. 
And  He  believed  it  too  ;  for  when  the  hours 
Had,  field  by  field,  unlinked  the  folded  vale, 
And  led  me  softly  by  the  mountain  paths, 
And  up  the  hollow  rivers  ; — teaching  still 
New  names  and  natures  in  their  thoughtful  round : 
And  I  had  followed  all  the  groves  that  go 
From  Shaking- Acres,  to  the  Neighbour's  Hole  ! 
Still,  with  each  deep-blue  gap,  or  piece  of  pines, 
Or  upland  farm-field  lovely  and  apart, 


THE  •  STRANGER.  79 

I  found  him  there,  the  Stranger.     Vague  and  dim 

The  wind  stirs  through  these  mountain-terraces 

In  the  hunting  day  ;  and  such  his  motion  seemed : 

Yet,  like  the  ailing  wind,  went  everywhere 

With  a  faint,  fluttering  step ;  and,  when  he  stood, 

He  stood  as  one  about  to  fall,  as  now 

Sick    Autumn    stands,    with    weak-hlue    vapour 

crowned. 
A  man  who  seemed  to  have  walked  through  life 

alone : 

Feeble  he  was,  and  something  stepped  in  years, 
Yet  sought  no  succour  save  of  sun  and  shade  ; 
But  ever  went  apart,  and  held  his  face 
Deep  in  the  shadow.     But  most  he  loved  to  lie 
By  poplar-shafts,  or  where  yon  maple-stock 
Bears  on  his  fork  a  hall  of  umbrage  up, 
And  waits  for  Autumn's  wain  :  in  the  deep  day, 
At  morning's  edge,  or  night,  his  place  was  there. 

Skirting  the  valley,  north  by  needle  runs 
A  sapling  coppice,  scrags  and  second-growth, 
With  sucker-brush  and  seedlings  intermixed, 


80  THE  STRANGER. 

And  a  wood-path  thrids  through  from  end  to  end: 
There  hreathes  the  scented  pyrola,  and  there 
The  perfect  fragrance  of  the  partridge-flower, 
'Mid    moss,    and    maiden-hair,   and    damp    dead 

leaves ; — 

A  poet's  cloister  for  a  hidden  hour* 
And  there  I  found  him  murmuring  to  himself 
Like  a  low  brook,  hut  could  not  come  to  drink 
His  words;  for  still  the  bond  that  should  have 

drawn 

Held  us  apart, — that  love  of  lonely  Nature, 
And  quick  impatience  of  human  neighbourhood. 
And  I  believed  he  was  some  natural  poet, 
With  a  great  sorrow  hard  against  his  heart, 
And  shunned  to  tread  too  close  I  yet  while  I  gazed 
On  the  sad,  patient  brow,  and  the  fixed  lip 
"Where  silence  brooded,  I  longed  to  look  within 
On  the  completed  story  of  his  life ; 
So  easy  still  it  seemed  to  lift  the  hand, 
And  open  it,  as  I  would  a  disused  door 
Locked  with  a  dusty  web.     But  he  passed  out ; 
And,  if  ho  had  a  grief,  it  went  with  him, 


THE  STRANGER.  81* 

And  all  tho  treasure  of  his  untold  love ; — 
A  love  that  carried  him  forward  with  the  cloud, 
Drew  him  with  river-currents,  and  at  night 
Impelled  him  to  the  mountain's  edge  and  fall 
Among  the  crowding  woods  and  cataracts. 

So 

The  Summer  parted  ;  hut  ere  Autumn's  cold 
Bade  the  fall-cricket  cease  his  mournful  hymn, 
By  steps  and  rests  of  rock,  I  once  again, 
Half-seeking  him  I  shunned,  one  still  fair  day 
And  in  the  sunshine  of  the  afternoon, 
Climhed  upward  to  tho  overlooking  ledge, 
And  stood  in  thought  beneath  the  dropping  pine. 
There  shook  the  shining  River,  and  there  glimpsed 
The  village  sunk  in  foliage  at  my  feet, 
And  one  vast  pine  leaned  outward  to  the  gulf. 
On  a  great  root  that  held  the  tree  to  tho  hill, 
I  saw  him  sitting,  till  the  late  red  light 
Fell  wearing  westward,  and  still  he  sat,  and  looked 
Toward  the  dim  remainder  of  the  day  ; 
And  in  his  hand  a  bunch  of  blazing  leaves, 
Torn  from  the  sumach  as  he  passed  along ; 

6 


82  THE  STRANGER. 

"While  round  his  feet  gathered  the  mountain  flower, 
Dry  asters,  hardhack,  and  the  withering  fern. 
The  night  came  dark  between  us  on  the  hill, 
And  nevermore  have  I  beheld  his  face  ; 
Yet  often  since,  when  I  have  walked  with  Sorrow, 
In  solitude,  and  hopelessness  of  heart, 
Have  I  recalled  that  time,  and  wondered  whether 
The  old  man  still  went  weary  on  the  earth, 
And  if  my  dreams  of  his  high  gift  were  true  : 
But  I  have  waited  long  indeed  to  hear 
These  rivers  break  in  song,  or,  bluely  dark, 
Behold  these  mountains  rank  in  rolling  verse, 
Or  our  red  forests  light  the  landscape  line. 
Something  I  still  have   learned, — respect  of  pa 
tience, 

And  that  mysterious  Will  that  proves  the  heart, 
Breaking  away  the  blossoms  of  its  joy, 
And,  for  our  latest  love,  restoring  grief ; 
A  swifter  sympathy  for  human  pain  ; 
And  knowledge  of  myself,  grown  out  of  this, 
Unguessed  before  ;  a  humbler,  higher  belief 
In  God  and  Nature ;  and  more  surrendered  love. 


THE  STRANGER.  83 

Still  clings  the  pine-root  clamped  into  the  crag ; 
But  the  dead  top  is  dry,  beneath  whose  houghs 
He  sat,  and  watched  the  West ;  and,  in  my  walks, 
So  changed  I  feel  as  I  approach  the  place, 
So  old  in  heart  and  step,  it  almost  seems 
As  if  tho  Wanderer  left  his  life  for  mine, 
When  night  came  dark  between  us  on  the  hill : 
A  double  interchange,  as  if  indeed 
"Twas  my  old  self  that  disappeared  with  him, 
And  he  in  me  still  walks  the  weary  earth. 
But  these  are  fancies,  and  so  indeed  is  most 
That  I  have  dreamed  or  uttered  in  this  regard, 
Worthless  of  utterance  may  be  at  the  best, 
Since  first  the  Stranger  came  among  these  rocks : 
A  common  man  perhaps,  with  common  cares  ; 
Guiltless  of  grief,  or  high  romantic  love 
Of  natural  beauty ;  a  common  life  at  last, 
Though  strangely  sot  and  shrined  in  circumstance, 

Ah  !  did  the  brook  sob  hoarse,  the  dark  tree  pine 
With  all  its  branches,  when  first  I  missed  him 
hence  ? — 

6-2 


84  THE  STRANGER. 

And  found  him  not,  whether  my  erring  feet 
Followed  the  waste  flowers  up  the  upland  side, 
Or  dipped  in  grass,  or  scaled  the  Poet's  Rock, 
Or  slid  beneath  the  pines  in  Wells's  woods  J 
Did  Nature  bid  me  mourn  ?  or  was  it  but 
The  restless  beating  in  my  own  vague  mind 
That  drove  me  on  ?    I  know  not  this ;  but  he 
Had  passed  away  for  ever  from  the  hills. 
No  more  for  him/ mid  fallen  waves  of  grass, 
Mower  or  harvest-hand  shall  mop  his  brows, 
And  look  across  the  sunshine ;  nevermore 
Gruff  village  cur,  or  even  the  patient  yoke 
That  after  them  draw  the  furrow  in  the  field, 
Shall  seem  to  watch  those  footsteps. 

Years  have  gon< 

And,  but  with  me,  his  memory  must  be  dead  ; 
Yet  oft  I  see  a  Figure  in  the  fields, 
And  scarce  less  real  than  his  personal  self, 
Which  ever  faded  as  the  foot  drew  near. 
I  often  see  the  figure  in  the  fields, 
And  hear  low  verses  wailing  in  the  wind, 
And  I  have  mourned  for  him  and  for  his  grief ; 


,      •  THE  STRANGER,  85 

Yet  never  heard  his  name,  and  never  knew 

Word  of  his  history,  or  why  he  came 

Into  this  outskirt  of  the  wilder  land  ; 

And  know  not  now,  whether  among  the  roofs 

He  parted  fair,  or,  as  the  people  say, 

Went  off  between  two  days,  and  left  the  woods 

And  wilds  to  mourn  him,  with  the  sighing  stream. 


86 


AN  IDYLL. 

THE  wind,  that  all  the  day  had  scarcely  clashed 
The  cornstalks  in  the  sun,  as  the  sun  sank, 
Came  rolling  up  the  valley  like  a  wave, 
Broke  in  the  beech,  and  washed  among  the  pine, 
And  ebbed  to  silence;  but  at  the  welcome  sound, — 
Leaving  my  lazy  book  without  a  mark, 
In  hopes  to  lose  among  the  blowing  fern 
The  dregs  of  a  headache  brought  from  yesternight, 
And  stepping  lightly  lest  the  children  hear, — 
I  from  a  side-door  slipped,  and  crossed  a  lane 
With  bitter  Mayweed  lined,  and  over  a  field 
Snapping  with  grasshoppers,  until  I  came 
Down  where  an  interrupted  brook  held  way 
Among  the  alders*    There,  on  a  strutting  branch 
Leaving  my  straw,  I  sat  and  wooed  the  west, 
With  breast  and  palms  outspread  as  to  a  fire. 


THE  SCHOOL-GIRL,  87 

The  breeze  had  faded,  and  the  day  had  died  j 
And  twilight,  rosy-dark,  had  ceased  to  climb 
Above  the  borders ;  when  through  the  alder-thicks 
A  school-girl  fair  came  up  against  the  brook ; 
From  dell  and  gurgling  hollow,  where  she  had 

stopped 

To  pull  sweet-flag,    And  she  had  been  below, 
Where  the  brook  doubles, — for  well  I  knew  each 
Angle,  and  alnage  of  the  weedy  stream, —     [knot, 
For  those  palo  amber  bell-worts  wet  with  shade  * 
A  girl  whom  the  girl-mother's  desperate  love 
Had  clung  to,  through  the  years  when,  one  on  one, 
All  of  her  blood  had  blushed  to  drop  away ; 
And  she  was  left  the  last,  with  this  one  tie 
To  hang  her  to  the  earth.     So  her  young  life, 
Above  the  gulf,  detached,  and  yet  detained, 
Suspended  swung ;  as  o'er  a  fresh-fallen  pool 
A  laurel-blossom,  loosened  by  the  rain, 
Hangs  at  its  pistil-thread—hangs,  shakes,  and  falls, 

I  saw  her  crossing  through  the  aider-thick? 
And  floworloss  spoonwood  :  but,  when  she  stopped 
to 


88  THE  SCHOOL-GIRL. 

I  seemed  to  lift  my  head  out  of  a  dream 
To  gaze  upon  her ;  for  the  ceaseless  chime 
Of  insect-voices  singing  in  the  grass,-— 
Ticking  and  thrilling  in  the  seeded  grass, — 
Had  sent  me  dreaming.  I  mused ;  and  consciously, 
In  a  half-darkness,  so  would  sink  away. 
But  ever  and  again  the  soft  wind  rose, 
And  from  my  eyelids  hlew  the  skimming  sleep. 
I  looked  upon  her,  and  her  eyes  were  wet ; 
While  something  of  her  mother's  colour  burned 
Gay  in  her  cheek  i  too  like  her  mother  there, 
She  stood,  and  called  me  from  the  land  of  dreams. 

The  land  of  visions  !    But  she,  lingering,  seemed 
Most  like  a  vision,  standing  in  her  tears, 
Speaking  unreal  words :  but,  when  I  sought 
Their  import,  she  said  again  in  clearer  tone 
Her  salutation,  and  asked,  "  Did  I  not  fear 
The    night's    unwholesome   dew?"    and    offered 

flowers. 

And  as  we  wandered  homeward,  by  the  slopes, 
And  through  the  sugar-orchard  to  the  hill, 
She  told  me  of  her  griefs  :  her  music-lesson — 


THE  SCHOOL-GIRL.  88 

She  could  not  play  the  notes,  nor  count  aright. 

And  she  had  sung  before  she  broke  her  fast 

That  morning,  and  needs  must  weep  before  she 

slept ; 

And  so  throughout  the  day  :  until  at  night, 
As  she  was  winding  upward  by  the  brook, 
The  thought  of  her  dead  mother  crossed  her  heart, 
And  with  it  came  the  fear  that  she  herself 
Would  die,  too,  young. 

I  spoke  some  soothing  words, 
For  her  frank  sorrow  yielding  sympathy  ; 
And,  as  we  rose  the  hill,  stood  for  a  breath, 
And  told  an  Indian  story  of  the  place, — 
Of  Wassahoale  and  the  fair  Quaker  maid, 
Who  left  the  bog-hut  for  a  chieftain's  lodge, 
Until  her  face  grew  clear  again  and  calm, 
Yet  like  a  sky  that  cleareth  in  the  night, 
Presaging  rain  to  follow.    We  wandered  down  ; 
But,  ere  we  reached  the  village,  she  said  farewell, 
Nearing  the  house  in  which  her  father  dwelt, — 
Her  father,  and  his  brother,  and  herself. 
But  I  passed  on  until  she  left  me  there 


90  THE  SCHOOL-GIRL, 

At  her  own  garden-gate,  with  a  half-smile, 
And  eyelashes  fresh-pointed  with  her  tears* 

Two  brothers  were  they,  dwelling  in  this  place 
When  first  I  knew  their  names  and  history, 
And  held  for  heirs  upon  the  village  street ; 
Yet  trained  to  work  from  starlight  until  dusk 
For  their  old  father*    But  he  now  was  old, 
Reputed  rich,  and  like  the  hark  to  the  tree ; 
Tougher  perhaps,  but  tight  enough  for  that. 
And  so  they  toiled  and   waited,  stretched   and 

scrimped, 

With  one  maid-sister  fitted  to  reserve, 
Early  and  late,  until  their  hands  were  hard, 
And  their  youth  left  them.    Still  the  promised  day 
Drew  nearer, — the  day  of  rest  and  competence  j 
And  years  went  round,  and  still  they  rose  and  slept, 
Not  for  themselves,  but  him  who  harder  held, 
Like  a  man  drowning,  his  remorseless  gripe 
As  his  strength  went.    At  length,  when  hope  was 
The  very  doorstones  at  the  door  worn  out,      [o'er, 
And  they  themselves  grown  old,  the  old  man  died ; 


THE  SCHOOL-GIRL.  91 

And  left  them  poor  at  last,  with  a  great  house 
That  fed  upon  their  substance  like  a  moth. 
Bond-debt  and  meadow-mortgage  had  the  rest, 
All  but  the  house, — a  sorry  patrimony. 
To-day  I  saw  it,  staring,  lacking  paint, 
With  a  new  suit  of  shingles  to  the  sky  ; 
Spruce-pine  perhaps,  but  sapwood  at  the  best, 
Good  for  three  years,  and  warranted  to  rot. 

Regardless  this ;  but  she  of  whom  I  spoke, 
The  elder  brother's  child,  was  like  a  light 
In  the  blank  house :  not  practical,  in  truth, 
Nor  like  the  father's  side,  as  oftentimes 
The  child  is  more  the  mother's  than  the  man's ; 
But  dearer  far  for  this :  and  in  the  porch, — - 
Where,  for  a  mortal  lifetime  certainly, 
Was  seen  the  old  man  sitting  like  a  stone, — 
Gathered  young  footsteps,  and  light  laughter  ran, 
And  sweet-girl  voices.    Once,  indeed,  I  saw 
An  awkward  youth  in  the  dark  angle  there, 
Dangling  and  flapping  like  a  maple-key 
Hung  in  a  cobweb ;  but  she  still  was  kind, 


92  THE  SCHOOL-GIRL. 

Gentle  with  all,  and,  as  she  seemed  for  me 
Beside  the  brook,  thoughtful  beyond  her  years. 

That  night,  I  scarcely  slept,  before  I  dreamed 
Of  softly  stepping  in  the  meadow  grass 
With  moccason  on  foot :  and  like  indeed, 
The  Indian  of  the  story  that  I  told  j 
While  she  who  wandered  with  me  in  the  day, 
Still  went  beside ;  yet  changing  in  her  turn, 
Became  the  truant  daughter  of  the  woods  ! 
Now  seemed  herself,  now  Phasbe  Bellflower, 
And  neither  now, — but  on  I  passed  alone. 
And  like  myself,  thro'  dewless  bent  and  reed, 
Brooding  again  the  School-girl's  simple  griefs, 
And  her  feweet  farewell  face,  and  murmuring  soft 
These  words  : — • 

11  Sleep,  sister !  let  thy  faint  head  fall, 
Weary  with  day's  long-fading  gleam ; 

And  blessed  Gloom,  in  interval 

Of  daylight,  bind  thine  eyes,  and  seem 

To  lead  thee  on  through  dim-lit  dells, 

Trembling  with  tiny  harps  and  bells. 


THE  SCHOOL-GIKL.  93 

The  flowers  you  found  along  the  day, 
While  balmy  stars  of  midnight  shine, 

May  those  forgetting  fingers  sway ; 

And  so,  until  the  morning  stream, 
May  all  of  fair  and  good  be  thine, — 

Gathered  from  daylight,  or  dim  hours 
When  balmy  stars  of  midnight  shine ! 

"  Rest,  maiden  !  let  thy  sorrows  rest, — 

Nor  tearful  on  the  future  look, — 
The  sinless  secrets  of  thy  breast ; 

And  close  the  record  like  a  book. 
And  thus  aside  for  ever  lay 
The  disappointments  of  the  day : 

Nor  note  nor  number  bid  thee  weep  ; 
But  lie,  lie  on,  and  let  thy  dream 

Dim  off  to  slumber  dark  and  deep." — 
I  heard  the  whisper  of  the  brook ; 

While  the  dry  fields  across  the  stream, 
With  myriad-music  of  the  night, 
Still  shook  and  jingled  in  my  dream." 


94 


Jl 

SENT  TO  THE  AUTHOR,  WITH  A  REQUEST  FOR  A  POEM  J 
OR, 

THE  PUBLICAN,  THE  PEDDLER,  AND  THE  POET. 


TWELVE  plain  brown  beans !  'Twould  seem  to  ask 

As  plain,  indeed,  a  string  of  verses  : 
But  beans  are  sweet ;  and  though  my  task 

Must  deal  with  these,  and,  what  far  worse  is, 
A  story  dry  must  dress  or  dock, 

So  to  search  out  fair  Truth,  or  shun  her, — 
Yet  may  I  garnish  up  the  stock, 

And  hang  it  with  the  scarlet  runner. 

The  bean,  the  garden-bean,  I  sing,—- 

Lima,  mazagan,  late  and  early, 
Bush,  butter,  black  eye,  pole  and  string, 

Esculent,  annual,  planted  yearly  : 


A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS.  95 

Sure  here  a  poet  well  might  fare, 

Nor  vaguely  his  invention  worry  ; 
I  shake  my  head  in  flat  despair ; 

Or  out  and  over  the  hills  I  hurry, 

As  lo  fled  by  Nigris'  stream, — 

Spurred  by  the  angry  brize  or  bot-bee  : 
But  beans  I  sing,  a  classic  theme 

Known  to  the  Muse  ;  and  may  they  not  be 
Melodious  made  in  other  than 

The  lyric  verse  or  amcebrean,— ' 
Beans,  hateful  to  the  banished  man, 

And  banned  by  the  Pythagorean  ? 

Loose,  or  in  legume  blue  and  reJ, 

Tinged  like  a  torn-turkey's  wattle ; 
Or  strung  like  birds'  eggs  on  a  thread ; 

Or  stiff  and  dry  in  pods  they  rattle : 
Beans  too,  in  bladders,  discomposed 

By  stroke  and  blow,  make  music  mystic ; 
But  these  are  free  in  hand,  nor  closed 

In  their  own  natural  cells,  or  cystic. 


I 

98  A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS. 

May  I  not,  inly  pondering,  see, 

Or  stumbling  on  in  flight  phrenetic, 
Enough  of  truth  and  simile* 

To  strew  the  way  with  flowers  poetic  ? 
No  !  though  on  every  side  they  fell, 

Dispersed  like  the  gold  hemony 
On  Ulai's  bank,  with  asphodel, 

Lote,  lily-blow,  and  anemone, 

Beans  would  be  beans,  the  gardener's  joy ; 

And,  though  to  him  more  dear  than  roses, 
.   Not  to  be  made  to  senses  coy 

Rose-redolent,  by  any  process. 
Let  me,  then,  cease  to  stir  my  breast, 

Nor  longer  stay  to  bribe  or  flatter 
The  vegetable  text ;  but  rest, 

Or  get  at  once  into  my  matter. 

A  little  public-house  and  bar, 

Barn,  corn-house,  dovecote,  gathered  under 
A  mighty  elm,  which,  arching  far, 

Held  off  the  rain  and  drew  the  thunder ; 


A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS,          97 

A  farmstead  small  of  shabby  huts, 
Unknown  to  cane  or  cotton  grower, 

And  just  within  the  line  that  cuts 
The  States,  and  Canada  the  Lower : 

A  little  public -house  and  bar 

Smelling  of  beer  and  dead  tobacco, 
It  stood ;  within,  a  bench  and  chair, 

A  parrot,  and  an  ape ;  but  Jacko 
Was  stuffed  above  the  chimney-piece, 

And  Poll  was  plaster  :  so  we  summon 
The  holders  of  our  house  of  ease, 

And  live  incumbents,  man  and  woman. 

Jolly  and  old  the  landlord  was, 

Part  farmer,  and  part  broadcloth -smuggler ; 
The  wife  a  patient  drudge,  alas  ! 

With  aches  and  asthma  long  a  struggler ; 
Yet  day  and  night  she  served  the  grate  : 

He  scarcely  past  beyond  the  groundsill ; 
But,  feet  in  slipper-shoes,  sat  late, 

And  drew  his  ale,  and  kept  his  counsel. 

7 


98  A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS. 

Above  his  head  an  almanac 

Depended,  while  the  slate  and  pencil, 
On  toddy-stick  and  tumbler-rack, 

Kept  watch,  and  stood  to  charge  or  cancel : 

Nought  else,  except  a  faded,  grim, 

\ 

Fly-spattered  print  of  Buonaparte*, 
And  the  host's  Sunday  hat  and  trim, 
Hung,  like  their  owner,  plump  and  hearty. 

Another  too,  a  poet  slim, 

Came  nightly  from  the  neighbour-village 
To  this  retreat ;  more  sweet  to  him 

Than  leafy  summer-house,  or  treillage 
Wherethrough  the  moonbeams  fall  t  the  wreath 

Trailed  from  the  pipe  of  passing  drover, 
More  rare  than  the  grape-blossom's  breath, 

Or  night-gusts  o'er  the  beds  of  clover. 

In  the  world-drama  he  waa  one, 

Bearing,  perhaps,  a  part  like  Peto 
In  the  old  play  :  yet  did  he  shun 
.    The  world,  and,  reckless  of  mosquito, 


A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS.  99 

By  pond-hole  dark,  and  weedy  drain, 
Sequestered  swamp,  or  grassy  side -hill, 

Would  linger,  breathing  dull  disdain 
In  many  a  rustic  ode  and  idyll ; 

And  breathing  beauty  too,  and  wit ; 

Nor  lacked  it  in  poetic  ardour, 
His  verse ;  for,  where  he  doubted  it, 

He  struck  again,  and  hammered  harder  : 
'Twas  hit  or  miss,  to  make  or  maul, — 

Not  quite  a  Walter  Scott  or  Byron, — 
Two  blows  upon  the  anvil  fall, 

And  one  upon  the  burning  iron  ! 

Good  fellow  was  he  in  the  main, 

Yet  strangely  strove  to  be  unhappy, 
Himself  a  desert-chief  would  feign, 

And  Cow-cliff,  Ararat  or  Api ; 
Or,  all  alone,  would  weep,  to  cleanse 

Some  fancied  shame  or  felony ; 
Or,  witchlike,  haunt  tha  birchwood  glens 

For  vervain  dank  and  cheUone, 

7—2 


100  A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS. 

A  chamber,  too,  he  had  at  times 

For  needful  rest :  but  his  ambition 
Was  still  to  read  and  rant  his  rhymes, 

Unwearied  with  their  repetition  ; 
Or  over  some  old  tale  bemused 

To  lie,  till  chilled  and  hunger-bitten, 
Along  a  floor  with  books  confused, 

And  blotted  sheets,  and  rolls  o'erwritten. 

! 

Full  well  he  knew  the  stars  and  flowers, 

The  atmosphere,  its  height  and  pressure, 
The  laws  that  gird  the  globe,  and  powers 

That  make  our  peril  or  our  pleasure. 
He  knew  each  bird,  its  range  and  sphere ; 

For  plant  and  shrub,  had  many  an  odd  use  : 
But  naught  of  farming-growths  or  gear, 

And  less  of  garden -sauce  and  produce  ? 

So  when  the  peddler  passed,  and  brought 
His  last  new  lot  of  lies  and  lumber, — 

Tins,  foot-stove,  gridiron,  pail,  and  pot, 

And  drugs,  and  dry-goods,  without  number ; 


A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS.  101 

Cigars  too  in  the  grocery  line  ; 

Tracts,  extracts,  jellies,  quince,  or  guava, 
And,  rarest,  seed  for  coffee-vine, 

Pure  bean  or  berry,  just  from  Java  ; 

He  listened  :  "  Sure  to  sprout ;  in  fall 

To  ripen,  let  the  world  go  onward, 
A  row  of  oaken  scrags  was  all 

They  needed,  so  to  scramble  sunward." 
"  0  happy  thou,"  the  schoolslip  road, 

"  Who  with  thy  hands  thy  fortune  carvest !  " 
"  But  happiest,"  so  the  peddler  said, 

"  Is  he  who  gets  such  grain  in  harvest." 

And  so  they  talked.     The  summer  wind 

Came  softly  from  the  meadow  blowing, 
Through  open  door  and  window-blind 

Brought  the  pino's  breath  across  the  mowing ; 
It  stirred  the  print,  it  jarred  the  slate, 

It  waved  the  farmer's  best  apparel, 
And  shook  the  dry  weeds  in  the  grate, 

And  withered  grasses,  awn  and  aril. 


102  A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS. 

And  still  they  talked  5  and,  ere  the  wind 

Had  faded,  all  that  parcel  precious 
Was  to  our  hero's  hand  resigned 

For  future  use*    May  such  refresh  us, 
And  him  who  held  his  luck  revealed ! 

His  own,  no  doubtful  risk  or  far  gain. 
But  silver  planted,  sure  to  yield, 

And  bless  him  with  a  golden  bargain* 

And  then  the  landlord  drew  his  best  5 

No  hoarded  drops  of  vintage  fruity, 
But  good  to  speed  the  parting  guest 

And  cheer  the  new  :  so  while  in  duty 
The  poet  drank,  and  called  for  more, 

The  landlord,  like  a  desert  sandy, 
The  peddler  parted,  richer  for 

Six  dollars  and  a  slug  of  brandy. 

What  more  ?    Why,  naught.    'Twere  slow  to  tell 
The  sequel  here  ;  such  Glaucian  traffic 

May  well  befit  a  Homer's  shell, 

Or  Virgil's  harp  ;  or,  sung  in  Sapphic, 


A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS.  103 

Perhaps  'twould  mount  a  theme  divine ; 

But,  in  this  me.ss  of  jar  and  jingle, 
*Twould  pose  the  nine  brains  of  the  Nine 

To  make  much  sense  and  music  mingle* 

Yet  might  I  tell  how  hard  he  wrought, 

Rising  betimes  to  watch  his  purchase ; 
And  left  his  rhymes  and  dreams  forgot. 

And  lonely  walks  beneath  the  birches ; 
And  how  the  vines  got  riper  fast ; 

Till,  battered  pan  with  sauce -pan  clinking, 
He  borrowed  fire,  and  saw  at  last 

His  prize,  burnt,  ground,  and  hot  for  drinking ; 

And  how  the  Poet  stirred  and  supt 

With  an  old  spoon  new-bought  at  auction, 
And  thought  the  world's  ways  all  corrupt,-— 

For  so  he  found  his  pure  decoction ; 
Not  fragrant,  black,  and  lit  indeed 

To  set  before  a  King  or  Sophi ; 
Bat  slate-stones  for  his  silver  seed  ! 

And,  for  his  coffee-bean,  bean-coffee ! 


104  A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS. 

His  letter,  too,— 'tis  here,  addressed 

To  some  society  Botanic, 
In  languid  ink ;  though  fitted  best 

On  wharf  and  mart  to  scatter  panic. 
A  massive  missive  certainly, 

Nor  writ  with  rifled  plume  of  seraph ; 
See  hero  !  the  dotless  j  and  i 

Deform,  with  sprawly  date,  and  paraph. 

And  last,  not  least,  could  I  repeat 

The  landlord's  glee,  when,  thither  poking, 
The  poet  sneaked  into  his  seat, 

And  all  the  glory  of  the  joking } 
How  the  old  fellow  roared,  forsooth, 

And  laughed  from  shining  poll  to  shoelap ; 
Whilst  the  old  lady  showed  her  tooth, 

And  coughed,  and  shook  the  double  dewlap. 

Enough  !  the  house  still  stands  the  same, 
With  barn  and  steadings ;  but  the  elm-tree 

Went  down  in  a  great  blow  that  came 
To  flatten  fence  and  overwhelm  tree* 


A  SAMPLE  OF  COFFEE-BEANS.  105 

Yet  looks  the  ale-bench  on  the  way, 
And,  as  of  old,  the  twain  divide  it ; 

But,  since  the  coffee-trade,  they  say 
The  peddler  has  not  passed  beside  it. 


106 


A  GRAY  old  man,  with  a  descending  beard 
Rugged  and  hoar,  and  a  still  massive  face, 
Met  daily  in  the  way.    Mall,  market-place, 
By-way,  and  thoroughfare  his  steps  have  heard 
At  night  and  noon.     The  voice,  the  utterance 

slow, 

And  downward  gesture  like  a  blacksmith's  blow  ; 
Regardless  ear ;  and  eye  that  would  not  see, 
Or  saw  as  if  it  saw  collectively, — 
Who  does  not  call  to  mind  ?    We  thought  of  all, 
Resembling  him  to  each  one,— -Plato,  Paul, 
Or  him  who  round  besieged  Jerusalem 
Fled,  shrieking  "Woe!"— woe  to  himself  and 

them, — 


A   LATTER-DAY  SAIN1.  107 

Until  the  catapult  dashed  out  his  life. 

Here,  on  this  slah,  above  the  tear  and  strife, 

He  stood,  and  saw  the  great  world   fume  and 

foam  on, 

As  on  a  dial-plate,  himself  the  gnomon  ; 
Or,    like    old  Time,  he  leaned  on  his  scythe- 
snath, 

Waiting  the  harvest  of  the  day  of  wrath, 
Now  reaping-ripe  :  anon,  with  word  and  blow, 
He  thunders  judgment  to  the  throngs  below ; 
The  end  of  things  he  prophesies  and  paints, 
And  of  the  rest  remaining  for  God's  saints  ; 
To  one  conclusion  all  his  reasons  run, 
And  this  he  sees,  taking  his  hearers  on 
From  point  to  point ;  though  still  discursively 
The  addle-eggs  about  his  temples  fly. 
Again  he  wanders  by — you  wonder  where, 
And  follow  pityingly,  but  miss  him  there : 
Forgetful  soon,  you  join  the  stream  and  stress 
Of  the  great  Street ;  when  to  yon  Porch  superb, 
Behold !    the  crowd  runs,   blackening  flag  and 
curb, 


108  A  LATTER-DAY  SAINT. 

As  to  their  Stoa  the  Athenians  ran, 
Or  Rome  to  hear  her  Statius*    You  rush  on  ; 
And,  in  the  middle  of  the  jeering  press, 
Ho,  smeared  with  mud  and  yellow  yolks  is, 
Giving  the  law,  like  Zeno  or  Zamolxis, 


109 


(Gritir, 


KEEN,  brilliant,  shallow,  with  a  ready  phrase 

To  fit  occasion,  and  a  happy  knack 

Of  adaptation,  where  he  most  did  lack, 

And  witty  too,  and  wise  in  several  ways  ; 

As  knowing  where  to  choose,  and  whore  to  skip  ; 

"  Passwords  of  inspiration  "  on  his  lip, 

He  takes  the  wall ;  and  now  may  well  surprise 

Those  who  remember  him  five  lustrums  back, — 

A  ferret-headed  boy  with  purry  eyes. 

Behold  the  Scholar  now,  the  Judge  profound ! 

Yet,  feeling  with  his  foot  precarious  ground, 

He  stands  to  fly,  or,  with  a  borrowed  jest. 

To  blink  the  question  when  too  closely  pressed. 

Reproof  in  praise,  and  friendship  in  his  frown, 

Have  we  not  seen  him,  talking  calmly  down 


llo  ANYBODY'S  CRITIC. 

On  some  proud  spirit ;  letting  light  illapse 
On  him,  poor  votary  of  the  book  and  pen, 
E  very-ways  his  superior ;  perhaps 
A  mighty  Poet,  before  common  men 
Ashamed  ?    But  view  our  Critic  !  mark  his  eye 
Exhaustive,  nose  would  snuff  the  violet  dry 
Of  odour,  and  a  brow  to  whelm  the  world. 
In  his  right  hand  a  written  leaf  is  twirled ; 
Before,  a  landscape  spreads ;  and  there  you  see, 
Skirting  the  sky,  low  scrub  and  topping  tree. 
Beside  him  stands  a  youth  with  bended  eyes, 
(Waiting  the  word  until  the  Master  rise,) 
With  blushing  brow,  less  confident  than  cowed  : 
Perhaps  his  poem  in  his  hand  he  brought ; 
Or  a  late  letter  from  some  lord  of  thought,     « 
Like  a  rich  gem,  half-grudgingly  he  shows  ; 
Of  which  a  young  man  might  full  well  be  proud  ; 
So  cordial,  sweet,  and  friendly  to  the  close, 
With  not  one  vacant  word  of  cant  or  chaff. 
"Yes,  yes,"  the  Master  says,  "  an  autograph  !. 
And  surely  to  be  prized  ;  for  such  things  sell : 
And,  for  your  poem,  'tis  a  clever  thing." 


ANYBODY'S  CRITIC.  Ill 

Then  turning  the  poor  pages  carelessly, 

As  taking  in  the  whole  with  half  an  eye, 

Ho  said,  "  The  worth  of  such  'tis  hard  to  tell : 

If  Art  inspire  us,  'tis  in  vain  we  sing ; 

If  love  of  Nature  merely,  'tis  not  well ; 

And  personal  themes  have  little  good  or  harm : 

For  in  these  bustling  days,  when  critics  swarm, 

No  man  can  stand  aside,  without  rebuke, 

To  prate  of  bubbling  brooks,  and  uplands  grassy  ; 

Like  the  Pied  Piper  in  the  Burgelostrasse", 

'Twill  set  the  rats  a-running."    Then  with  a  look, 

A  look  that  took  the  beauty  from  the  grass, 

And  damped  the  blue,  he  let  the  subject  pass 

For  other  themes ;  glancing  at,  Heaven  knows  what ! 

The  farm,  the  camp,  the  forum,  Pitt  and  Burke  ; 

And  in  his  confidential,  friendly  phrase 

Weighed  that,  he  knew  the  other  valued  not, 

Or  plainly  lacked ;  and  of  his  life's  best  work 

Spoke  easily,  with  depreciating  praise, 


112 


h  0  truda, 


IN  the  golden  reign  of  Charlemaign  the  king, 

The  three  and  thirtieth  year,  or  thereabout, 

Young  Eginardus,  bred  about  the  court, 

(Left  mother-naked  at  a  postern-door,) 

Had  thence  by  slow  degrees  ascended  up ; — 

First  page,  then  pensioner,  lastly  the  king's  knight 

And  secretary ;  ytt  held  these  steps  for  naught 

Save  as  they  led  him  to  the  Princess*  feet, 

Eldest  and  loveliest  of  the  regal  three, 

Most  gracious  too,  and  liable  to  love  : 

For  Bertha  was  betrothed  ;  and  she,  the  third, 

Giselia,  would  not  look  upon  a  man» 

So,  bending  his  whole  heart  unto  this  end, 

He  watched  and  waited,  trusting  to  stir  to  fire 


RHOTRUDA.  113 

The  indolent  interest  in  those  large  eyes, 
And  feel  the  languid  hands  beat  in  his  own, 
Ere  the  new  spring,    And  well  he  played  his  part; 
Slipping  no  chance  to  bribe,  or  brush  aside, 
AH  that  would  stand  between  him  and  the  light  j 
Making  fast  foes  in  sooth,  but  feeble  friends, 
But  what  cared  he,  who  had  read  of  ladies'  love, 
And  how  young  Launcelot  gained  his  Guenovere  ; 
A  foundling  too,  or  of  uncertain  strain  ? 
And  when  one  morning,  coming  from  the  bath, 
He  crossed  the  Princess  on  the  palace-stair, 
And  kissed  her  there  in  her  sweet  disarray, 
Nor  met  the  death  he  dreamed  of,  in  her  eyes, — 
He  knew  himself  a  hero  of  old  romance  ; 

Not  seconding,  but  surpassing,  what  had  been. 

. 

And  BO  they  loved ;  if  that  tumultuous  pain 

Be  love, — disquietude  of  deep  delight, 

And  sharpest  sadness ;  nor,  though  he  knew  her 

heart 

His  very  own, — gained  on  the  instant  too, 
And  like  a  waterfall  that  at  one  leap 

8 


1 14  RHOTBUDA. 

Plunges  from  pines  to  palms, — shattered  at  once 
To  wreaths  of  mist,  and  hroken  spray  hows  bright. 
He  loved  not  less,  nor  wearied  of  her  smiles ; 
But  through  the  daytime  held  aloof  and  strange 
His  walk;  mingling  with  knightly  mirth  and  game; 
Solicitous  hut  to  avoid  alone 
Aught  that  might  make  against  him  in  her  mind ; 
Yet  strong  in  this,— that,  let  the  world  have  end, 
He  had  pledged  his  own,  and  held  Rhotruda's 
troth. 

But  Love,  who  had  led  these  lovers  thus  along, 
Played  them  a  trick  one  windy  night  and  cold  : 
For  Eginardus,  as  his  wont  had  been, 
Crossing  the  quadrangle,  and  under  dark, — 
No  faint  moonshine,  nor  sign  of  any  star,— 
Seeking  the  Princess*  door,  such  welcome  found, 
The  knight  forgot  his  prudence  in  his  love ; 
For  lying  at  her  feet,  her  hands  in  his, 
And  telling  tales  of  knightship  and  emprise, 
And  ringing  war ;  while  up  the  smooth  white  arm 
His  fingers  slid  insatiable  of  touch, 


RHOTRUDA,  115 

The  night  grew  old :  still  of  the  hero- deeds 
That  he  had  seen,  he  spoke ;  and  bitter  blows 
Where  all  the  land  seemed  driven  into  dust ! 
Beneath  fair  Pavia's  wall,  where  Loup  beat  down 
The  Longobard,  and  Charlemaign  laid  on, 
Cleaving  horse  and  rider ;  then,  for  dusty  drought 
Of  the  fierce  tale,  ho  drew  her  lips  to  his. 
And  silence  locked  the  lovers  fast  and  long, 
Till  the  great  bell  crashed  One  into  their  dream. 

The  castle-bell !  and  Eginard  not  away  ! 
With  tremulous  haste  she  led  him  to  the  door, 
When,  lo  !  the  courtyard  white  with  fallen  snow, 
While  clear  the  night  hung  over  it  with  stars, 
A  dozen  steps,  scarce  that,  to  his  own  door : 
A  dozen  steps  ?  a  gulf  impassable ! 
What  to  be  done  ?    Their  secret  must  not  llo 
Bare  to  the  sneering  eye  with  the  first  light ; 
She  could  not  have  his  footsteps  at  her  door ! 
Discovery  and  destruction  were  at  hand : 
And,  with  the  thought,  they  kissed,  and  kissed 
again; 

8—* 


116  RHOTRUDA. 

When  suddenly  the  lady,  bending,  drew 
Her  lover  towards  her  half-unwillingly, 
And  on  her  shoulders  fairly  took  him  there, — 
"Who  held  his  breath  to  lighten  all  his  weight, — 
And  lightly  carried  him  the  courtyard's  length 
To  his  own  door ;  then,  like  a  frightened  hare, 
Fled  back  in  her  own  tracks  unto  her  bower, 
To  pant  awhile,  and  rest  that  all  was  safe. 

But  Charlemaign  the  king,  who  had  risen  by  night 

To  look  upon  memorials,  or  at  ease 

To  read  and  sign  an  ordinance  of  the  realm,— 

The  Fanolehen,  or  Cunigosteura 

« 
For  tithing  corn,  so  to  confirm  the  same 

And  stamp  it  with  the  pommel  of  his  sword, — 
Hearing  their  voices  in  the  court  below, 
Looked  from  his  window,  and  beheld  the  pair. 

Angry,  the  king ;  yet  laughing  half  to  view 
The  strangeness  and  vagary  of  the  feat ; 
Laughing  indeed  !  with  twenty  minds  to  call 
From  his  inner  bed-chamber  the  Forty  forth, 


RHOTRUDA.  117 

Who  watched  all  night  beside  their  monarch's  bed, 
With  naked  swords  and  torches  in  their  hands, 
And  test  this  lover' s-knot  with  steel  and  fire ; 
But  with  a  thought,  "  To-morrow  yet  will  serve 
To  greet  these  mummers,"  softly  the  window  closed, 
And  so  went  back  to  his  corn-tax  again. 

But,  with  the  morn,  the  king  a  meeting  called 

Of  all  his  lords,  courtiers  and  kindred  too, 

And  squire  and  dame,— in  the  great  Audience 

Hall 
Gathered;   where  sat   the    king,  with  the  high 

crown 

Upon  his  brow  ;  beneath  a  drapery 
That  fell  around  him  like  a  cataract ! 
With  flecks  of  colour  crossed  and  cancellate ; 
And  over  this,  like  trees  about  a  stream, 
Rich  carven-work,  heavy  with  wreath  and  rose, 
Palm  and  palmirah,  fruit  and  frondage,  hung. 

And  more  the  high-Hall  held  of  rare  and  strange ; 
For  on  the  king's  right  hand  Leoena  bowed 


118  &HOTBUDA. 

In  cloudlike  marble,  and  beside  her  crouched 

The  tongueless  lioness  ;  on  th j  other  side, 

And  poising  this,  the  second  Sappho  stood,— 

Young  Eroxc6a,  with  her  head  discrowned, 

The  anadema  on  the  horn  of  her  lyre ; 

And  by  the  walls  there  hung  in  sequence  long 

Merlin  himself,  and  Uterpendragon, 

With  all  their  mighty  deeds  ;  down  to  the  day 

When  all  the  world  seemed  lost  in  wreck  and 

rout, 

A  wrath  of  crashing  steeds  and  men  }  and,  in 
The  broken  battle  fighting  hopelessly, 
King  Arthur,  with  the  ten  wounds  on  his  head  t 

But  not  to  gaze  on  these,  appeared  the  peers. 
Stern  looked  the  king,  and,  when  the  court  was 

met, — 

The  lady  and  her  lover  in  the  midst, — 
Spoke  to  his  lords,  demanding  them  of  this  i 
What  merits  he,  the  servant  of  the  king, 
Forgetful  of  his  place,  his  trust,  his  oath, 
Who,  for  his  own  bad  end,  to  hide  his  fault, 


RHOTRUDA.  119 

Makes  use  of  her,  a  Princess  of  the  realm, 
As  of  a  mule  ; — a  beast  of  burden  ! — borne 
Upon  her  shoulders  through  the  winter's  night, 
And  wind  and  snow  ?     "  Death  !  "  said  the  angry 

lords ; 
And  knight  and  squire  and  minion  murmured, 

"  Death  ! " 

Not  one  discordant  voice.    But  Charlemaign — 
Though  to  his  foes  a  circulating  sword, 
Yet,  as  a  king,  mild,  gracious,  exoruble, 
Blest  in  his  children  too,  with  but  one  born 
To  vex  his  flesh  like  an  ingrowing  nail— - 
Looked  kindly  on  the  trembling  pair,  and  said  ; 
"  Yes,  Eginardus,  well  hast  thou  deserved 
Death  for  this  thing ;  for,  hadst  thou  loved  her 

so, 
Thou  shouldst  have  sought  her  Father's  will  in 

this,-~ 

Protector  and  disposer  of  his  child, — 
And  asked  her  hand  of  him,  her  lord  and  thine. 
Thy  life  is  forfeit  here  ;  but  take  it,  thou  I— 
Take  oven  two  lives  for  this  forfeit  one ; 


120  RHOTRUDA. 

And  thy  fair  portress— wed  her ;  honour  God, 
Love  one  another,  and  obey  the  king.1* 

Thus  far  the  legend ;  but  of  Rhotrude's  smile, 
Or  of  the  lords'  applause,  as  truly  they 
Would  have  applauded  their  first  judgment  too,, 
Wo  nothing  learn  J  yet  still  the  story  lives  j 
Shines  like  a  light  across  those  dark  old  days, 
Wonderful  glimpse  of  woman's  wit  and  love ; 
And  worthy  to  be  chronicled  with  hers 
Who  to  her  lover  dear  threw  down  her  hair, 
When  all  the  garden  glanced  with  angry  blades ! 
Or  like  a  picture  framed  in  battle-pikes 
And  bristling  swords,  it  hangs  before  our  view  ;«— 
The  palace -court  white  with  the  fallen  snow, 
The  good  king  leaning  out  into  the  night, 
And  Rhotruda  bearing  Eginard  on  her  backi 


121 


0  i  8  U  e. 


PALE  water-flowers ! 
That  quiver  in  the  quick  turn  of  the  brook ; 

And  thou,  dim  nook, — 
Dimmer  in  twilight, — call  again  to  me 
Visions  of  life  and  glory  that  were  ours 
When  first  she  led  me  here,  young  Coralie  ! 


No  longer  blest, 
Yet  standing  here  in  silence,  may  not  we 

Fancy  or  feign 

That  little  flowers  do  fall  about  thy  rest, 
In  silver  mist  and  tender-dropping  rain, 
And  that  thy  world  is  peace,  loved  Coralie  ? 


122  '      CORALIE. 

Our  friendships  flee ; 
And,  darkening  all  things  with  her  mighty  shade, 

Comes  Misery. 

No  longer  look  the  faces  that  we  see, 
With  the  old  eyes ;  and  Woe  itself  shall  fade, 
Nor  even  this  be  left  us,  Coralie ! 


Feelings  and  fears, 
That  once  were  ours,  have  perished  in  the  mould, 

And  grief  is  cold  t 

Hearts  may  be  dead  to  grief;  and  if  our  tears 
Are  failing  or  forgetful,  there  will  be 
Mourners  about  thy  bed,  lost  Coralie  ! 


The  brook-flowers  shine, 
And  a  faint  song  the  falling  water  has, 

But  not  for  thee  ; 

The  dull  night  wcepeth,  and  the  sorrowing  pine 
Drops  his  dead  hair  upon  thy  young  grave-grass, 

My  Coralio !  my  Coralie  ! 


123 


I  TOOK  from  its  glass  a  flower, 
To  lay  on  her  grave  with  dull  accusing  tears  ; 
But  the  heart  of  the  flower  fell  out  as  I  handled 

the  rose, 
And  my  heart  is  shattered,  and  soon  will  wither  away. 

I  watch  the  changing  shadows, 
And  the  patch  of  windy  sunshine  upon  the  hill, 
And  the  long  blue  woods ;  and  a  grief  no  tongue 

can  tell, 
Breaks  at  my  eyes  in  drops  of  hitter  rain, 

I  hear  her  baby-wagon, 

And  the  little  wheels  go  over  my  heart :  [return  ? 
Oh !  when  will  the  light  of  the  darkened  house 
Oh  !  when  will  she  come  who  made  the  hills  so  fair  ? 

I  sit  by  the  parlour-window 
When  twilight  deepens,  and  winds  get  cold  without  i 
But  the  blessed  feet  no  more  come  up  the  walk, 
And  my  little  girl  and  I  cry  softly  together. 


124 


Sis  sometimes  in  a  <Brflve. 


As  sometimes  in  a  grove  at  morning-chime, 

To  hit  his  humour, 
The  poet  lies  alone,  ami  trifles  time,— 

A  slow  consumer ; 
While  terebinthine  tears  the  dark  trees  shed, 

Balsamic,  grument ; 
And  pine-straws  fall  into  his  breast,  or  spread 

A  sere  red  strewment ; 


As  come  dark  motions  of  the  memory, 

Which  no  denial 
Can  wholly  chase  away ;  nor  may  we  see, 

In  faint  espial, 


AS  SOMETIMES  IN  A  GROVE.  125 

The  features  of  that  doubt  we  brood  upon 

With  dull  persistence, 
As  in  broad  noon  our  recollections  run 

To  pre-existence ; 

As  when  a  man,  lost  on  a  prairie-plain 

When  day  is  fleeting, 
Looks  on  the  glory,  and  then  turns  again, 

His  steps  repeating, 
And  knows  not  if  he  draws  his  comrades  nigher, 

Nor  where  their  camp  is, 
Yet  turns  once  more  to  view  those  walls  of  fire 

And  chrysolampis : 

So  idleness,  and  phantasy,  and  fear, 

As  with  dim  grandeur  [here 

The  night  comes  crowned,  seem  his  who  wanders 

In  rhyme  a  ranger ; 
Seem  his,  who  once  has  seen  his  morning  go, 

Nor  dreamed  it  mattered ; 
Mysterious  Noon ;  and,  when  the  night  comes,  lo ! 

A  life  well-scattered — 


126  AS  SOMETIMES  IN  A  GROVE. 

Is  all  behind ;  and  howling  wastes  before  : 

Oh  that  some  warmer 
Imagination  might  those  deeps  explore, 

And  turn  informer ! 
In  the  old  track  we  paddle  on,  and  way, 

Nor  can  forego  it ; 
Or  up  behind  that  horseman  of  the  day, 

A  modern  poet, 

We  mount ;  uncertain  where  we  may  arrive, 

Or  what  we  trust  to  J 
Unknowing  where,  indeed,  our  friend  may  drive 

His  Pegasus  to  s 
Now  reining  daintily  by  stream  and  sward 

In  managed  canter ; 
Now  plunging  on,  thro*  brick  and  beam  and  board, 

Like  a  Levanter ! 

Yet  ever  running  on  the  earth  his  course, 

And  sometimes  into ; 
Cbasing  false  fire,  we  fare  from  bad  to  worse ; 

With  such  a  din  too — 


AS  SOMETIMES  IN  A  GROVE,  127 

As  this  that  now  awakes  your  grief  and  ire, 

Reader  or  rider — 
Of  halting  verse  ;  till  in  the  Muse's  mire 

We  sink  beside  her. 

Oh !  in  this  day  of  light,  must  he,  then,  lie 

In  darkness  Stygian, 
Who  for  his  friend  may  choose  Philosophy, 

Reason,  Religion, 
And  find,  tho'  late,  that  creeds  of  good  men  prove 

No  form  or  fable  ; 
But  stand  on  God's  broad  justice,  and  his  love 

Unalterable  ? 

Must  he  then,  fail,  because  his  youth  went  wide  ? 

Oh !  hard  endeavour 
To  gather  grain  from  the  marred  mountain-side ; 

Or  to  dissever 
The  lip  from  its  old  draught :  we  tilt  the  cup, 

And  drug  reflection ; 
Or  juggle  with  the  soul,  and  so  patch  up 

A  peace  or  paction ; 


128  AS  SOMETIMES  IN  A  GROVE. 

Would  carry  heaven  with  half  our  Bins  on  board  i 

Or,  blending  thickly 
Earth's  grosser  sweet  with  that,  to  our  reward 

Would  mount  up  quickly  j 
Ready  to  find,  when  this  has  dimmed  and  shrunk, 

A  more  divine  land, 
And  lightly,  as  a  sailor  climbs  a  trunk 

In  some  dark  pine-land. 

Truly  a  treasure  in  a  hollow  tree 

Is  golden  honeyf 
Breathing  of  mountain-dew,  clean  fragrancy, 

And  uplands  sunny ; 
But  who,  amid  a  thousand  men  or  youth, 

Landward  or  seabred, 
Would  choose  his  honey  bitter  in  the  mouth 

With  bark  and  bee»bread  ? 

No !  though  the  wish  to  join  that  harping  choir 

May  oft  assail  us, 
We  scarce  shall  find  vague  doubt,  or  half-desire 

Will  aught  avail  us ; 


AS  SOMETIMES  IN  A  GROVE,  129 

Nor  fullest  trust  that  firmest  faith  can  get, 

Cold  fear  supplanting ; 
There  may  be  blue  and  better  blue,  and  yet 

Our  part  be  wanting. 

Alas  !  the  bosom-sin,  that  haunts  the  breast, 

We  pet  and  pension  ; 
Or  let  the  foolish  deed  still  co-exist 

With  fair  intention, 
From  some  temptation,  where  we  did  not  dare, 

We  turn  regretful ; 
Yet  think  "  the  Devil  finds  his  empty  snare," 

Not  by  a  netful ! 

0  conscience,  coward  conscience  !  teasing  so 

Priest,  lawyer,  statist, 
Thou  art  a  cheat,  and  may  be  likened  to 

Least  things  or  greatest ; 
A  rocking-stone  poised  on  a  lonely  tower 

In  pastures  hilly ; 
Or  like  an  anther  of  that  garden-flower, 

The  tiger-lily ; 

9 


I    . 
130  AS  SOMETIMES  IN  A  GROVE. 

Stirred  at  a  breath  :  or  stern  to  break  and  check 

All  winds  of  heaven  j 
While  toward  some  devil's-dance  we  crane  the  neck, 

And  sigh  unshriven ; 
Or  lightly  follow  where  our  leaders  go 

With  pipe  and  tambour, 
Chafing  our  follies  till  they  fragrant  grow, 

And  like  rubbed  amber. 

Yet,  for  these  things,  not  godlike  seems  the  creed 

To  crush  the  creature, 
Nor  Christly  sure ;  but  shows  it  like  indeed 

A  pulpit  preacher— 
To  fling  a  pebble  in  a  pond,  and  roar 

"  There !  sink  or  swim,  stone ; 
Get  safe  to  land  with  all  your  ballast,  or 

Black  fire  and  brimstone  i  " 

Ah  I  in  a  world  with  joy  and  sorrow  torn, 

No  life  is  sweeter 
Than  his,  just  starting  in  his  journey's  morn  ; 

And  seems  it  bitter 


AS  SOMETIMES  IN  A  GROVE.  131 

To  give  up  all  things  for  the  pilgrim's  staff, 

And  garment  scanty  ;  [laugh, 

The  moonlight-walk,  the  dream,  the  dance,  the 
And  fair  Rhodanthe  ! 

And  must  it  be,  when  but  to  him,  in  truth, 

Whom  it  concerneth, 
The  spirit  speaks  ?    Yet  to  the  tender  tooth 

The  tongue  still  turneth. 
And  he,  who  proudly  walks  through  life,  and  hears 

Paean  and  plaudit, 
Looks  ever  to  the  end  with  doubts  and  fears, 

And  that  last  audit. 

But,  as  we  sometimes  see  before  the  dawn, 

With  motion  gentle, 
Across  the  lifeless  landscape  softly  drawn 

A  misty  mantle ; 
Up  from  the  river  to  the  bluffs  away, 

The  low  land  blurring, 
All  dim  and  still,  and  in  the  broken  gray 

Some  faint  stars  stirring : 

9—2 


132  AS  SOMETIMES  Iff  A  GROVE* 

So,  when  the  shadow  falls  across  oar  eyes, 

And  interveneth 
A  veil  'twixt  us,  and  all  we  know  and  prize ; 

Then,  in  the  zenith,  [score, 

May  heaven's  lone  lights  not  pass  in  wreaths  ol> 

But,  still  sojourning 
Amid  the  cloud,  appoint  us  to  the  pure 

And  perfect  morning ! 

And  even  here, — when  stretching  wide  our  hands, 

Longing  and  leaning, 
To  find, 'mid  jarring  aims  and  fierce  demands, 

Our  strength  and  meaning ; 
Though  troubled  to  its  depths  the  spirit  heaves, 

Though  dim  despairing,— 
May  we  not  find  Life's  mesh  of  wreck  and  leaves 

Pale  pearls  insnaring  ? 

Yes  : — as  the  waters  cast  upon  the  land 

Loose  dulse  and  laver, 
And  where  the  sea  beats  in,  befringe  the  sand 

With  wild  sea-slaver ; — 


AS  SOMETIMES  IN  A  GROVE,  133 

For  currents  lift  the  laden  and  the  light, 

Ground- swell  and  breaker ; 
Not  weedy  trash  alone,  but  corallite, 

Jasper,  and  nacre. 

And  though  at  times  the  tempter  sacks  our  souls, 

And  fiends  usurp  us, 
Let  us  still  press  for  right,  as  ocean  rolls, 

With  power  and  purpose ; 
Returning  still,  though  backward  flung  and  foiled, 

To  higher  station, 
So  to  work  out,  distained  and  sorely  soiled, 

Our  own  salvation. 

Nor  following  Folly's  lamp,  nor  Learning's  lore, 

But,  humbly  falling 
Before  our  Father  and  our  Friend,  implore 

Our  gift  and  calling. 
Outside  the  vineyard  we  have  wandered  long 

In  storm  and  winter : 
Oh !  guide  the  grasping  hands,  the  footsteps  wrong, 

And  bid  us  enter— 


134  AS  SOMETIMES  IN  A  GROVE. 

Ere  the  day  draw  to  dark ;  nor  heave  and  price 

With  strength  unahle, 
Xor  range  a  world  for  wisdom's  fruit,  that  lies 

On  our  own  table. 
So  shall  we  find  each  movement  an  advance, 

Each  hour  momentous, 
If  but,  in  our  own  place  and  circumstance, 

Thou,  God,  content  us. 


135 


OF  one  who  went  to  do  deliberate  wrong  ; 
Not  driven  by  want,  nor  hard  necessity, 
Nor  seemingly  impelled  by  hidden  hands 
As  some  have  said  ;  nor  hounded  on  by  hate, 
Imperious  anger,  nor  the  lust  of  gold, 
This  story  tells.    Yet  all  of  these  colleagued 
To  drive  him  at  the  last ;  who  in  young  life, 
Ere  the  bone  hardens,  or  the  blood  grows  cold, 
When  youth  is  prompt  to  change,  even  momently, 
With  every  whiff  of  wind,  or  word  of  chance,- — 
Through  heat  and  cold,  for  many  a  month  and  day 
Went  calmly  to  his  purpose  with  still  feet ; 
No  break-neck  speed,  but  fearfully,  and  as  one 
Who  holds  his  horse  together  down  a  hill. 

Bethiaii,  or,  as  those  who  loved  her  loved 
To  call  her,  Bertha,  for  her  beauty's  sake, — 


. 

136  MAKK  ATHERTON. 

Bethiah  Westbrooke  was  a  forest-flower, 
That  trembled  forth  on  the  waste  woods  and  swamps 
Of  wild  New  England,  in  the  wild  dark  days 
Of  witchcraft,  and  of  Indian  wiles  and  war. 
Yet  something  after  this ;  for  oft  at  night, 
When  Westbrooke's  cottage  was  a  beacon-star 
To  many  a  beating  heart,  and  suitors  came 
From  far  with  gifts  and  game,  then  the  old  man, 
Who  felt  the  fire,  and  had  a  gust  to  talk, 
Would  tell  of  Philip's  war  and  Sassacus  ; 
And  how  Do  Rouville  crossed  the  crusted  snow 
Toward  doomed  Deerfield  in  the  winter's  morn,— 
With  a  quick  rush  and  halt  alternately, 
As  'twere  the  empty  rushing  of  the  wind, 
So  to  delude  the  outposts  ;  how  by  night, 
About  the  lonely  blockhouse  and  the  mount, 
The  scouting  Indian  hovered  like  a  wolf, 
Seeking  a  crevice  to  thrust  in  the  fire ; 
Till  the  dumb  creatures  of  the  barn  and  field 
Would  give  swift  notice  of  the  stealing  foe  5 
Cows,  horses,  snuffed  the  war-paint ;  and,  in  the 
house, 


MARK  ATHERTON,  137 

How  the  dog  whimpered  with  erected  hair, 
And,  like  the  wind  in  a  window,  wawled  the  cat, 
Of  these,  and  personal  scapes,  would  Wcstbrooke 

speak 

As  of  the  past ;  "  For  now,"  he  said,  "the  tribes, 
Shot,  scalped,  and  scattered,  flee  on  every  side  ; 
Their  bark-boats  staved  and  sunk,  their  lodges 

burned, 
And  plantings,  and  even  tho  lands  that  grew  them, 

seized, 

They  scarce  can  draw  to  head.    The  Indian  war 
Was  ended ;  save  that,  perhaps,  in  the  long  nights, 
From  some  lone  farm  outlying,  a  fire  might  rise, 
Set  on  by  the  wild  savage  with  a  shriek ! 
For  squads  were  here  and  there ;  and  still  'twas 

said, 

That  in  the  North  some  stragglers  held  together ; 
But  mainly  broken  now ;  nor  seemed  it  best 
To  mull  and  grind  them  into  very  dust." 

And  then  the  old  man,  turning,  as  he  talked, 
Towards  his  daughter,  bitterly  would  speak 


138  MARK  ATHERTON, 

Of  that  most  hateful  sin  of  treachery ; 

False  friendliness,  and  that  domestic  treason, 

Wherein  the  red  man,  trustless,  merciless, 

Is  better  than  the  white  j  then,  pausing  long, 

Would  gaze  upon  Bethiah  where  she  sat, 

Till  the  girl  winced,  and  on  her  forehead  stood 

The  impatient  colour  ;  and  Mark,  Mark  Atherton, 

Into  his  dark  avoiding  eye  would  seem 

To  call  a  clear  look,  till  the  old  man's  fell. 

Not  lovers  these,  though  long-accounted  friends ; 

And,  though  the  voice  went  that  they  two  would 

wed, 

Not  lovers  sure  :  yet  the  youth  had  her  ear 
And  ready  laughter ;  for  he  well  could  speak 
Smooth  words,  but  with  an  edge  of  meaning  in 

them, 

Like  a  sharp  acid  sheathed  in  milk  or  oil. 
Others,  too,  held  aloof;  but  yet  the  maid 
Heard  not,  or,  hearing,  heard  with  a  half-heart ; 
For  still  another  stood  between  the  two, — 
Companion  of  the  twilights  and  the  dawns 
Of  parted  days ;  one  who  had  loved  her  then 


MARK  ATHERTON,  139 

With  true-intending  lovo, — his  hope,  his  star, 
And  almost  mistress !    And  so  the  maiden  looked 
On  this  and  this,  with  a  divided  eye. 

Into  the  forest  rode  Mark  Atherton, 

Leaving  the  settlement  at  the  river-side, 

By  felling  and  burnt-over  land  ho  passed,  and 

plunged 

Thro1  towering  fern  and  thickset,  till  he  reached 
The  open  pines  ;  and  onward  still  he  rode ; 
Climbing  the  slippery  elope,  and  clattering  down 
The  stony  hollow,    From  his  horse's  hoof 
The  shy  frog  flew ;  and,  like  a  streak  of  light, 
The  squirrel  darted  up  the  mossy  bole, 
Whore,  glancing  upward,  downward,  and  across, 
Hammered  and  hung  the  crested  popinjay. 

So  sharply  on  he  rode  ;  now  brooding  on 
His  purpose,  which  was  in  truth  to  win  the  maid, 
Wrong  her  rich  love,  and  sell  her  to  the  chiefs 
That  lurked  with  their  red  warriors  in  the  shade; 
Now  on  her  beauty  with  a  grain  of  zuth, 


140  MARK  ATHERTON. 

'. 

Their  long-time  friendship,  and  that  marriage-vow 
Which  his  heart  hated :  for  he  thought  of  one, 
Once  the  heart's  idol  of  his  boyish  dream, 
That  hardly  heaven  seemed  fitted  to  enshrine ; 
Now  pent  within  a  house  just  bigger  than 
A  martin -box,  that  seemed,  and  scarce  as  clean, — 
The  fair  slight  girl  that  was, — "And  see  her  now! 
A  dozen  children  at  her  gown-tail  pull, 
As  so  a  slut  as  ere  went  down-at-heel ! " 

So,  hardening  his  heart,  he  drew  his  rein 

Against  the  bank,  and  sought  the  water-side*; 

Parting  the  laurel  to  behold  thy  face, 

New  England's  Stream,  cold  River  of  the  Pines ! 

There  lay  and  listened  till  the  twilight  fell ; 

When,  weary  of  the  flutter  of  the  leaf, 

The  dipping  of  the  ripple  on  the  rock, 

And  plaintive  calling  of  the  phcebe-bird, 

He  chanted,  half-in-fear,  half  mockingly  J — 

14  The  river-sides  are  high,  are  high,  the  night  is  dark  I 
And  fair  white  hands  are  drawing  at  our  bark  : 


MARK  ATHERTON.  141 

To-night,  to-night,  the  winds  obey  our  call, 
And  the  still,  dark  river  sucks  like  a  waterfall, 
AB  downstream  in  the  dug-out  on  we  fare ; 
For  the  minister's  daughter,  and  deacon's  wife  are  there. 
Paddle  away ! 

On  either  bank,  as  softly,  softly  down  she  plies, 
Remember,  remember,  that  many  a  landing  lies : 
Then  fear  not  the  Friend,  with  whom  we  have  our  part ; 
Nor  shame  to  own  the  love  that  hideth  in  the  heart ; 
Nor  grudge  our  chiefest  chamber  to  afford, 
When  the  house  is  his  from  sill  to  saddle-board ; 
Paddle  away!" 


And  with  the  cadence  came 
The  quick  replying  plunge  of  a  broad  blade ; 
And,  hideous  in  his  plaint  and  peag,  with  face 
Inflexible  of  mournful  gravity, 
An  Indian  chieftain,  leaping  from  his  boat, 
Stood,  like  the  fiend  evoked.    But  Atherton, 
Whose  cheek  had  whitened  like  the  winter-leaf  • 
That  flickers  all  day  in  the  whistling  beech, 
Held  down  his  head  as  for  a  moment,  so 
Recovering  his  face ;  then  steadfastly 


142  MARK  ATHEHTON. 

Exchanged  due  greeting  with  the  forest-king, 
And  passed  they  into  parley  by  the  stream. 

Red  light  had  parted  from  the  westward  verge, 

And  night  lay  hlack,  ere  back  again  and  fast 

The  horseman  fled,  a  shadow  through  the  shade. 

And  now  indeed,  as  if  in  very  truth, 

,The  river-demons  gathered  on  his  track; 

For,  ever  as  he  rode,  a  woman's  shriek 

Seemed  to  pursue  him  through  the  sounding  pines! 

And  where  he  looked,  there,  was  a  woman's  face, 

With  the  frothed  lip,  and  nostril  edged  with  blood, 

Relentlessly  appealing,  as  it  seemed. 

And,  ever  as  he  rode,  a  ceaseless  sound 

Went  ringing  at  his  ear  like  jingling  gold ; 

And,  like  the  innumerable  chink  and  chime 

Of  the  night-crickets  hidden  in  the  grass, 

Not  to  be  lost  or  left ;  he  gnashed  his  teeth : 

But  even  there  the  forest  fell  away, 

And  on,  by  burned  and  blackened  stumps  and 

shells, 
That  mimicked  all  things  horrible  and  vague, 


MARK  ATHERTON. 

In  the  dim  glimmer  insecure,  he  sped, 
And  gained  the  pickets  of  the  palisade. 

Another  night,  and  later  in  the  year, 
A  youth  and  maid,  in  the  first  edge  of  dark, 
Stood  by  the  haunted  stream,  or  wandered  on ; 
Insensibly  approaching  in  their  talk 
A  bushy  point  that  jutted  from  the  wood ; — 
Alley  and  ambuscade  of  black  pitch-pine. 
Various  their  look :  he,  lowering  in  his  mood, 
Baffled  and  broken  where  his  heart  was  high, 
Strode  sullenly ;  she,  sad,  but  resolute. 
And  pale  with  her  determination ;  yet 
As  one  who  strives  to  soothe  a  cureless  harm, 
Spoke  tenderly,  as  to  an  angry  friend ; 
Remembering  old  affection  ere  he  go, 
"  Partings  must  be,"  she  said ;  "but  is  not  this 
A  sorrowful  leavetaking  to  our  love, — 
To  all  our  friendliness  an  ill  farewell  ?  " 
A  moment  more,  and  while  the  words  were  warm, 
Torn  from  her  feet,  arms  bound,  and  gagged  with 
grass, 


144  MARK  ATHERTON. 

They  trailed  her  through  the  thickets  of  the  wood. 

And  all  alone  stood  Atherton, — with  him 

The  sachem  of  the  riverside  and  stream ; — 

Receiving  now,  what  he  had  had  in  part, 

All  the  bad  wage  of  his  iniquity. 

Then,  as  if  all  things  now  were  at  an  end. 

Released  from  gift  of  faith,  and  entergage, 

They  parted  silent :  one  took  up  the  trail, 

The  other  slowly  to  the  village  passed, 

And  raised  the  alarm,  and  blew  the  gathering-horn, 

And  headed  the  wild  search. 

With  trampling  feet 

He  led  them  to  the  River,  where,  he  said 
They  dragged  her  through  the  stream,  and  up  the 

bank, 

He  following  on  into  its  very  flow ; 
But  his  foot  slipping  in  the  anchor-ice, 
With  wetted  gun,  and  bruised  among  the  stones, 
He  saw  her,  for  whose  life  he  risked  his  own, 
Snatched  from  his  sight:    but  darker  now  the 

night, 
They  far  before,  the  trail  unsure  by  day, 


MAKK  ATHERTON.  145 

What  more  could  bo,  but  gather  arms  and  men, 
And  scout  abroad,  and  watch,  till  morning  light  ? 

And  Westbrooke,  the  old  man  without  a  child, 
Now  raging,  now  in  blank  and  mute  despair, 
Ban  forth,  or  stood  in  helplessness  of  grief : 
Not  now  as  when  he    marched    with  Mosely's 

men 

Against  the  savage  seated  in  his  strength  ! 
When,  like  a  sword  of  fire,  with  twenty  more, 
He  fell  upon  their  necks,  and  drove  them  in ; 
Or  under  Winslow,  in  that  desperate  day, 
When,  beaten  off  by  the  red  foe  intrenched, 
Through  battle-smoke  he  found  himself  alone 
O'er  breastwork  and  abbatis  charging  back* 
Gone  was  his  strength ;  and,  as  the  days  went  by, 
Gone  seemed  his  heart.    He  sought  his  bed,  and 

there 

Seeing  but  one  face,  as  the  days  went  by, 
Lay  motionless,  and  like  a  drowning  man. 
Who,  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a  brook, 
Stares  at  the  sun ;  till,  small  and  smaller  grown, 

10 


146  MARE  ATIIERTON. 

It  flickers  like  a  lamp,  and  then, — goes  out  } 
So  shrank  his  hope,  so  dropped  into  the  dark* 

And  days  went  by,  and  still  no  tidings  were* 
The  smouldered  war  broke  up  in  fresher  flame, 
Killing  all  hope ;  the  rangers,  ranging  back 
Through  all  the  Massachusetts,  west  and  north, 
Had  swept  the  woods  to  farthest  Canada, 
And  many  prisoners  ransomed  or  retook : 
But  she,  the  glory  of  his  life,  was  gone. 
And  yet,  one  winter  morning,  ere  the  sun 
Had  crossed  the  river  on  his  westward  march, 
Sudden  as  was  the  stroke,  the  mercy  came  j 
And  Westbrooke  held  the  daughter  of  his  heart ; 
Wilted  and  wan,  yet  still  the  Forest-Flower  I 
Brought  by  the  party  of  a  friendly  tribe, 
Who  took  her  from  the  chiefs,  sick  unto  death  j 
And  nursed  her  long,  and  tenderly  led  her  home, 
Nor  claimed  reward* 

And  sudden  vengeance  broke 
On  him,  the  traitor;  but  not  by  those  he  had 
wronged  i 


MARK  ATHERTON.  147 

Fled  on  the  instant  to  the  cedar-swamps, 
His  Indian  allies  seized  and  bound  him  there  ; 
And  after  battle,  chafing  for  their  slain, 
There,  in  the  darkness  of  the  cedar-swamp, 
They  slowly  burned  his   flesh,  and  charred  his 
bones, 

So,  in  the  old  days,  God  was  over  all  i 
Vengeance  was  full,  and  wrong  returned  to  right ; 
Mercy  replied  to  Love ;  the  lost  was  found ; 
And  treachery  answered  so  with  treachery. 


148 


jt  i  a  n « 


HATE  you  forgotten  that  Btill  afternoon, 
How  fair  the  fields  were,  and  the  brooks  how  full  ? 
The  hills  how  happy  in  their  hanging  green  ? 
The  fields  were  green ;   and  here,  in  spots  and 

holes 

Where  the  rich  rain  had  settled,  greener  greem 
We  sat  beside  a  window  to  the  south, 
Talking  of  nothing,  or  in  silence  sat, 
Till,  weary  of  the  summer-darkened  room, 
I  in  an  impulse  spoke,  you  smiled ;  and  so 
In  this  consent  we  wandered  forth  together 
Across  the  fields  to  entertain  the  time. 

Shall  I  retrace  those  steps  until  we  reach 
Again  the  crossing  River  ?    Yes ;  for  so 


SIDNEY,  149 

Again  I  seem  to  tread  those  paths  with  you : 
Here  are  the  garden-beds,  the  shrubbery, 
And  moody  murmur  of  the  poising  bee ; 
And  here  the  hedge  that  to  the  River  runs. 
Beside  me  still  you  mov'd  thro*  meadow-flowers  ; 
Beside,  yet  unapproachcd;  cold  as  a  star 
On  the  morning's  purple  brink ;  and  seemingly 
Unconscious  of  the  world  beneath  your  foot. 
Yet  as  I  plucked  up  handfuls  from  the  grass, 
With  here  and  there  a  flower,  telling  their  names 
And  talking  ignorant  words  of  why  they  were, 
You  paused  to  gather  berries  from  the  hedge  ; 
And  I  despaired  to  reach  you  with  my  words, 
Believed  you  cold,  nor  wished  to  find  myself 
Calling  your  face  back,  and  as  in  a  dream 
Lingering  about  the  places  where  you  were ; 
And  would  not  if  I  might,  or  so  it  seemed, 
Attain  unto  the  property  of  your  love : 
Knowing  full  well  that  I  must  soon  awake, 
Gaze  blankly  round,  and,  with  a  bottomless  sigh, 
Eelapse  into  my  life ; — the  life  I  knew 
Before  I  saw  your  fair  hair  softly  put 


150  SIDNEY. 

/" 

From  off  your  temples,  and  the  parted  mouth, — 

More  beautiful  indeed,  than  any  flower, 

Half-open,  and  expectant  of  the  rain. 

O  youth  and  loveliness  !  are  ye  less  dear 

Placed  at  impracticable  height,  or  where 

Not  wholly  clear,  but  touched  with  shades  and 

spots 

Of  coldness  and  caprice  ?  or  do  such  make 
The  bright  more  bright,  as  sometimes  we  may  see 
lu  the  old  pictures  ?    Is  the  knight's  brow  held 
Not  noble  for  its  scar  ?  or  she  less  fair, 
The  lady  with  the  lozenge  on  her  lip  ? 
So  may  your  very  failings  grace  you  more  j 
And  I,  most  foolish  in  my  wisdom,  find 
The  grapes  alone  are  sour  we  cannot  gain. 
But,  Sidney,  look  !  the  River  runs  below,— 
Dark-channelled  Deerfield,  here  beneath  our  feet, 
Unfordable,- — a  natural  bar  and  stay. 
Yet,  ere  you  turn,  let  us  look  off  together, 
As  travellers  from  a  hill ;  not  separate  yet, 
But  being  to  be  divided,  let  us  look 
Upon  the  mountains  and  the  summer  sky } 


SIDNEY.  151 

The  meadow  with  the  herd  in  its  green  heart ; 

The  ripple,  and  the  rye-grass  on  the  bank, 

As  what  we  ne'er  may  so  behold  again. 

And,  do  me  right  in  this,  the  eye,  that  saw 

These  accidents  and  adjuncts,  could  not  fail 

To  mark  you,  loveliest  of  the  place  and  time ; 

A  separate  beauty,  which  was  yet  akin 

To  all  soft  graces  of  the  earth  and  sky, 

While  wanting  naught  that  human  warmth  could 

give, 

So,  lady,  take  the  bitter  from  my  words : 
Let  us  go  onward  now ;  and  should  you  prize 
In  any  way  the  homage  of  a  heart 
Most  desolate  of  love,  that  finds  in  all 
Still  the  salt  taste  of  tears,  receive  it  here, 
With  aught  that  I  can  give,  or  you  retain, 
Let  me,  though  turning  backward  with  dim  eyes, 
Recover  from  the  past  one  golden  look, 
Remembering  this  valley  of  the  stream ; 
And  the  sweet  presence  that  gave  light  on  all, 
And  my  injustice,  and  indeed  your  scorn! 
Refusing  me  the  half-stripped  clover-stalk 


152  SIDNEY. 

Your  fingers  picked  to  pieces  as  we  walked* 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  take  from  my  lips  this  wish,— 
Not  from  my  lips  alone,  from  my  heart's  midst,—* 
That  your  young  life  may  be  undimmed  with  storms, 
Nor  the  wind  beat,  nor  wild  rain  lash  it  out, 
But  over  change  and  sorrow  rise  and  ride ! 
Leading  o'er  all  a  tranquil,  lenient  light ; 
And,  when  your  evening  comes,  around  that  beam 
No  tragic  twilight  brood,  but  late  and  long 
Your  crystal  beauty  linger  like  a  star, — 
Like  a  pure  poignant  star  in  the  fleecy  pink. 

But  give  your  poet  now  one  perfect  flower : 
For  here  we  reach  again  the  garden's  bound,— 
Sweet  as  yourself,  and  of  one  lustre  too ; 
Let  not  the  red  dark  bud  Damascus  yields, 
Nor  York-and-Lancaster,  nor  white,  nor  yellow, 
But  a  rose-coloured  rose* 


153 


LET  them  lie, — their  day  is  over ; 

Only  night  and  stillness  he : 
Let  the  slow  rain  come,  and  bring 

Brake  and  star-grass,  speedwell,  harebell! 
All  the  fulness  of  the  spring ; 

What  reck  I  of  friend  and  lover  ? 
Foe  by  foe  laid  lovingly  ? 

What  are  mounds  of  green  earth,  either  ? 

What,  to  me,  unfriendly  bones 
Death  hath  pacified  and  won 

To  a  reconciled  patience, 
Though  their  very  graves  have  run 

In  the  blending  earth  together, 
And  the  spider  links  the  stones  ? 


154  REFRIOERIUM, 

To  the  hills  I  wander,  crying,— 
Where  we  stood  in  days  of  old, 

Stood  and  saw  the  sunset  die  f 
Watched  through  tears  the  passing  purple, 

"  0  my  darling !  misery 
Has  been  mine  ;  but  thou  wert  lying 

In  a  slumber  sweet  and  cold." 


155 


©Id 


WHEN  buttercups  break  on  each  grassy  side, 
And  the  summer-long  clover  is  far  and  wide, 
And  by  air-hung  crag,  and  gully  dwell 
The  raspberry-rose,  and  the  blue  bluebell, 

What  will  he  do  ?  what  can  ho  say  ? 
Will  the  lavish  laurel  his  charges  pay  ? 
No :  but  the  sun  lies  warm  on  the  way ; 
And,  if  to-day  will  not,  to-morrow  may ! 

Yet  late  in  the  year,  when  the  grass  is  dry, 
And  the  grain  is  all  in,  and  the  garden  by. 
And  on  reach  of  river,  and  forest  through, 
The  smoke  of  the  Autumn  is  brooding  blue, 
What  will  he  do  ?  what  can  he  say    • 
To  the  purple  swamp,  and  the  hills'  array  ? 
Naught,  but  to  whisper  the  adage  gay, 
If  to-day  will  not,  to-morrow  may ! 


156  THE  OLD  BEGGAR. 

But  now,  when  the  white  drift  is  hurrying  higher, 
And  the  hirch-log  sputters  like  fat  in  the  fire, 
And  the  wind  singeth  boldly,  and  in  the  window 
The  weather-glass  bubble  is  buried  in  snow, 
What  will  he  do  ?  what  can  he  say  ? 
Out !  is  it  ours  to  save  or  to  slay  ? 
E'en  let  him  go  whistle  his  lesson  and  lay, 
That,  if  to-day  will  not,  to-morrow  may ! 

Heed  not  his  cry,  though  you  feed  of  the  best, 
And  with  warmest  of  feathers  have  fledged  your 

nest  j 

From  the  wind  of  his  garments  shrink  and  scowl ; 
Slap  the  door  in  his  face,  and  let  him  howl ! 
What  will  he  do  ?  what  can  he  say  ? 
What  matter  to  us,  if  we  preach  and  pray ; 
Stand  him  aside  for  a  fairer  day ! 
So,  if  to-day  will  not,  to-morrow  may  I 

Alas !  when  the  daylight  is  weary  to  see, 
When  the  grasshopper's  song  shall  a  burthen  be, 
When  the  jar  of  the  cricket  is  bitter  to  hear, 
And  the  hum  of  the  harvest-fly  stings  the  ear, 


THE  OLD  BEGGAR,  157 

What  shall  we  do  ?  what  can  we  say 
When  the  heart  is  old,  and  the  head  is  gray, 
And  Grief  cometh  home  like  a  child  to  stay, 
And  to-day  cannot  help  us,  nor  morrow  may  ? 

When  we  plant  with  tears,  and  in  sorrow  pluck, 
And  cometh  cross-fortune  and  evil  luck ; 
And  the  land  is  cold,  and  the  stiff  hands  bleed, 
And  for  harvest  we  hardly  get  back  the  seed,— 

What  can  we  do  ?  what  shall  we  say 
If  a  selfish  past  we  alone  survey  ? 
Dare  we  hope  from  the  present  a  happier  ray  ? 
Or  that,  if  to-day  will  not,  to-morrow  may  ? 

Ah,  no  !  but  now  reach  him  the  holding  hand ; 
Bound  his  fading  strength  be  an  arm  and  band ; 
Be  the  wrong  of  the  wretched  your  trust  and  task  ; 
And  when  trouble  comes  home,  then  do  you  ask, 
"  What  can  we  do  ?  what  shall  we  say  ?  " 
Thank  God  for  the  good  we  have  done  in  our  day ; 
Be  the  beggar's  burthen  our  stave  and  stay ; 
That  the  cloud  may  be  lifted,  with  full  heart  pray  5 
And,  if  to-day  will  not,  to-morrow  may. 


158 


Jpattto  la  4rt 


WHEN  weary  Summer  had  laid  down  her  leaves, 
And  all  the  autumn  fields  were  brown  and  bleak, 
How  often  did  we,  wandering  cheek  to  cheek, 
Tread  these  deserted  ways !    On  those  sad  eves, 
You— -clinging  to  my  Hido  how  foivrfully  I— 
Would  scarcely  duro  to  speak  or  breathe  aloud  ; 
While  every  gust  seemed  like  a  voice  to  rise, 
And  Nature's  self  to  mourn.    How  often  we, 
Low  in  the  westward,  where  they  stood  like  eyes, 
Saw  tho  Oenielli  under  brows  of  cloud ; 
Or,  through  dim  pine-boughs, — now  the  quick 

tears  start, — 

Watched  tho  rod  beating  of  tho  Scorpion's  heart, 
While  winged  with  love  and  fear  tho  hours  fled  by ! 
0  stolen  hours  of  danger  and  deh'ght ! 
*  See  the  "  Story  of  Rimini" 


PAULO  TO  FRANCESCA.  159 

0  lamp  of  erring  passion  burned  to  waste ! 

0  true  false  heart !  even  now  I  seem  to  taste 
The  bitter  of  the  kisses  that  you  gave. 

You  were  the  traitor, — yes  j  and  more  than  I, 
You  were  the  tempter.    Ah  !  that  autumn  night, 
The  hour  that  seemed  a  wavering  line  to  mark 
'Twixt  early  sunset  and  determined  dark, 
Found  us  together,     Menacing  and  grave, 
The  night  sank  down ;  no  lingering  gleam  allowed, 
But  in  the  west  one  fiery  cupreous  cloud. 
Do  you  remember,  desperate  in  my  mood, 
Of  all  things,  of  myself,  and  most  of  you, 
Half-careless,  too,  whether  the  worst  wore  known, 
So  that  the  storm  might  split  on  mo  alone, 

1  laughed  to  think  how  far  we  had  got  from  good  ! 
Then,  with  a  quick  revulsion,  wept  to  view 

The  misery  of  our  lives  !  for  cruel  hands 

Had  digged  a  gulf  between,  a  gulf  of  sin 

We  could  not  cross,  nor  dared  to  plunge  within, 

And  yet, — as,  musing  on  our  fate  and  fall, 

I  spoke  as  one  who  surely  understands, 

Of  that  deep  peace  that  had  been  found  by  some, 


160  PAULO  TO  FRANCESCA. 

And  good  from  evil ;  reasoning,  like  Paul, 

Of  temperance,  judgment,  and  the  life  to  come ; 

Deeming  it  better  here  to  weep  and  fast, 

Than  mourn  with  those  who  shall  mourn  at  the 

last; 

And  we  had  wept  as  ne'er  till  then  before, 
And  half-resolved  that  we  would  meet  no  more,— *• 
In  the  pine-hollow,  under  the  bare  skies, 
While  darker  yet  the  Shadow  closed  and  clung, 
You,  pausing,  turned,  (do  you  remember  this  ? ) 
With  clinging  arms,  and  die-away  sweet  eyes, 
And  kissed  me  in  the  mouth,  with  such  a  kiss 
As  that  Apollo  gave  Cassandra  young ; 
Sealing  her  prophet-lips,  alas  1  with  serpent-tongue. 


161 


ih*  gim 


WHEN  the  dim  day  is  buried 

Beyond  the  world's  sight, 
Low-lingering,  lurid, 

A  sorrowful  light 
Is  left  on  the  hilltops  ; 

While  bitter  winds  blow, 
Swept  down  from  those  chill  tops 

And  summits  of  snow. 
Yet,  like  a  pale  crown  set, 

The  hills  wear  away 
The  gold  of  the  downset 

And  dying  of  day : 
So  the  Indian  beheld  it 

Above  his  black  pine, 
Ere  the  pioneer  felled  it ; 

Yet,  brother  of  mine, 

11 


162  WHEN  THE  DIM  DAY. 

No  more  by  the  river 

You  track  to  the  brink 
Snowy  marks  of  the  beaver : 

The  musk-rat  and  mink 
Are  all  that  is  left  now ; 

So  races  depart ; 
And  Nature,  bereft  now, 

Place  yieldeth  to  Art. 


Yes,  bridge-pier  and  building 

Now  burden  the  bank, 
Where  the  slow  sunset,  yielding, 

O'er  dark  forests  sank ; 
Nor  the  red  man  with  cunning 

His  net  hangeth  here 
Where  the  rapid  is  running, 

Nor  plungeth  the  spear. 
Yet  raftsmen  and  wrecker 

Subsist  by  the  stream  ; 
Here  find  their  exchequer : 

Nor  empty,  we  deem, 


WHEN  THE  DIM  DAY.  163 

Are  the  boats  and  the  barges 

That  softly  drop  down, 
Bearing  burthen  and  largess 

Of  hillside  and  town, 
But  the  heart  no  change  knoweth  : 

The  stream  shifts  its  side ; 
Wind  cometh  and  goeth, 

But  sorrows  abide. 
The  bank  breaketh  inward  ; 

The  hills  heave  and  sink  : 
Without  and  withinward, 

All  gather  or  shrink. 
See  where,  by  yon  birches, 

The  wave  rested  still ! 
Now  the  wild  water  lurches 

And  lashes  at  will ; 
Nor  oarsman  nor  sculler 

Could  draw  on  the  tide, 
Though  his  cheek  wore  the  colour 

Of  roses  in  pride. 
Bat  the  depth  and  the  deadness 

Of  grief  will  not  flow : 

11— a 


164  WHEN  THE  DIM  DAY. 

0  sorrow  and  sadness, 
That  this  should  be  so ! 

Though  the  wave  and  the  earthquake 
May  swallow  the  shore, 

Vet  wild  sorrow  and  heart-break 
Will  part  nevermore ! 


165 


to  Jh<{ 


Tu,  0  Virgo  virginum, 

Flos  et  maris  stella ! 
Lumen  gcstans  hominum,- 

Puritatis  cella ! 
Maria,  fons  venio?, 

Tons  mellia  et  roris, 
Fons  misericordiffi, 

Pincerna  dulcoris ! 
Porta  regie  gloria), 

Omni  pulchritudine 
Siderum  ornata : 

In  polorum  culmine 
Eognas  coronata  t 


166 


translation. 


THOU,  0  Virgin  of  the  virgins, 

Star  and  flower  of  the  sea ! 
Bearing  up  the  Lamp  of  men, — 

Shrine  of  purity ! 
Mary,  fountain  of  remission, 

Fountain  sweet  of  honey-dew, 
Fountain  of  forgiving  mercy  j 

Mingler  and  dispenser,  too, 
Of  delightful  sweetness ! 

Gate  of  splendour's  king ; 
In  all  excellence  of  beauty 

Stars  out-glorying ! 
At  the  summit  of  the  poles, 

Crowned,  thou  art  reigning. 


167 


I  NEITHER  plough  the  field,  nor  sow, 
Nor  hold  the  spade,  nor  drive  the  cart, 

Nor  spread  the  heap,  nor  hill  nor  hoe, 
To  keep  the  barren  land  in  heart. 


And  tide  and  term,  and  full  and  change, 
Find  me  at  one  with  ridge  and  plain  ; 

And  labour's  round,  and  sorrow's  range, 
Press  lightly,  like  regardless  rain. 


Pleasure  and  peril,  want  and  waste, 
Knock  at  the  door  with  equal  stress, 

And  flit  beyond ;  nor  aught  I  taste 
Disrelishing  of  bitterness. 


168  MARGITES. 

And  tide  and  term,  and  full  and  change, 
Crown  me  no  cup  with  flowers  above ; 

Nor  reck  I  of  embraces  strange, 
Nor  honey-month  of  lawful  love. 


The  seasons  pass  upon  the  mould 
With  counter-change  of  cloud  and  clear ; 

Occasion  sure  of  heat  and  cold, 
And  all  the  usage  of  the  year. 


But,  leaning  from  my  window,  chief 
I  mark  the  Autumn's  mellow  signs, — 

The  frosty  air,  the  yellow  leaf, 
The  ladder  leaning  on  the  vines* 


The  maple  from  his  brood  of  boughs 
Puts  northward  out  a  reddening  limb ; 

The  mist  draws  faintly  round  the  house ; 
And  all  the  headland  heights  are  dim. 


MAKGITES.  169 

And  yet  it  is  the  same,  as  when 
I  looked  across  the  chestnut  woods, 

And  saw  the  barren  landscape  then 
O'er  the  red  bunch  of  lilac-buds  : 


And  all  things  seem  the  same. — 'Tis  one, 
To  lie  in  sleep,  or  toil  as  they 

Who  rise  before  time  with  the  sun, 
And  so  keop  footstep  with  their  day ; 


For  aimless  oaf,  and  wiser  fool, 
Work  to  one  end  by  differing  deeds  ;— • 

The  weeds  rot  in  the  standing  pool ; 
The  water  stagnates  in  the  weeds ; 


And  all  by  waste  or  warfare  falls, 
Has  gone  to  wreck,  or  crumbling  goes, 

Since  Nero  planned  his  golden  walls, 
Or  the  Cham  Cublai  built  his  house. 


MARGITES. 


But  naught  I  reck  of  change  and  fray  ; 

Watching  the  clouds  at  morning  driven, 
The  still  declension  of  the  day  ; 

And,  when  the  moon  is  just  in  heaven, 


I  walk,  unknowing  where  or  why  ,* 
Or  idly  lie  beneath  the  pine, 

And  bite  the  dry  brown  threads,  and  lie 
And  think  a  life  well-lost  is  mine. 


171 

0ntu.t  a. 

PART    I, 


I. 

SOMETIMES,  when  winding    slow  by  brook   and 

bower, 

Beating  the  idle  grass,  —  of  what  avail, 
I  ask,  are  these  dim  fancies,  cares,  and  fears  ? 
What  though  from  every  bank  I  drew  a  flower,  — 
Bloodroot,  king-orchis,  or  the  pearlwort  pale,  — 
And  set  it  in  my  verse  with  thoughtful  tears  ? 
What  would  it  count,  though  I  should  sing  my 

death, 

And  muse  and  mourn  with  as  poetic  breath 
As,  in  damp  garden  walks,  the  autumn  gale 
Sighs  o'er  the  fallen  floriage  ?    What  avail 
Is  the  swan's  voice,  if  all  the  hearers  fail  ? 
Or  his  great  flight,  that  no  eye  gathereth, 
In  the  blending  blue  ?    And  yet,  depending  so, 
God  were  not  God,  whom  knowledge  cannot  know. 


172  SONNETS. 


n. 


WHEREFORE,  with  this  belief,  held  like  a  blade,— 
Gathering  my  strength  and  purpose,  fair  and  slow, 
I  wait ;  resolved  to  carry  it  to  the  heart 
Of  that  dark  doubt  in  one  collected  blow ; 
And  stand  at  guard  with  spirit  undismayed, 
Nor  fear  the  Opposer's  anger,  arms,  or  art ; 
When,  from  a  hiding  near,  behold  him  start 
With  a  fresh  weapon  of  my  weakness  made ; 
And  goad  me  with  myself,  and  urge  the  attack, 
While  I  strike  short,  and  still  give  back  and  back 
While  the  foe  rages*     Then  from  that  disgrace 
He  points  to  where  they  sit  that  have  won  the  race 
Laurel  by  laurel  wreathing,  face  o'er  face, 
And  leaves  me  lower  still ;  for,  ranked  in  place, 


SONNETS.  173 


HI. 


AND  borne  with  theirs,  my  proudest  thoughts  do  seem 
Bald  at  the  host,  and  dim ;  a  harren  gleam 
Among  the  immortal  stars,  and  faint  and  brief 
As  north-light  flitting  in  the  dreary  north, 
"  What  have  thy  dreams, — a  vague,  prospective 

worth? 

An  import  imminent  ?  or  dost  thou  deem 
Thy  life  so  fair,  that  thou  wouldst  set  it  forth 
Before  the  day  ?  or  art  thou  wise  in  grief, 
Has  fruitful  Sorrow  swept  thee  with  her  wing  ?  " 
To-day  I  heard  a  sweet  voice  carolling 
In  the  wood-land  paths,  with  laugh  and  careless  cry, 
Leading  her  happy  mates.    Apart  I  stept ; 
And,  while  the  laugh  and  song  went  lightly  by, 
In  the  wild  bushes  I  sat  down  and  wept. 


174  SONNETS* 


.IV. 


NOB  looks  that  backward  life  so  bare  to  me, 

My  later  youth,  and  ways  I've  wandered  through  ; 

But  touched  with  innocent  grace, — the  early  bee 

On  the  maple  log,  the  white-heaped  cherry-tree 

That  hummed  all  day  in  the  sun,  the  April  blue ! 

Yet  hardly  now  one  ray  the  Forward  hath 

To  show  where  sorrow  rests,  and  rest  begins  j 

Although  I  check  my  feet,  nor  walk  to  wrath 

Through  days  of  crime,  and  grosser  shadowings 

Of  evil  done  in  the  dark ;  but  fearfully, 

Mid  unfulfilled  yet  unrelinquished  sins 

That  hedge  me  in,  and  press  about  my  path> 

Like  purple-poison  flowers  of  stramony, 

With  their  dull  opiate-breath,  and  dragon-wings. 


SONNETS,  175 


V. 


AND  so  the  day  drops  by ;  the  horizon  draws 
The  fading  sun,  and  we  stand  Btruck  in  grief; 
Failing  to  find  our  haven  of  relief, — 
Wide  of  the  way,  nor  sure  to  turn  or  pause  ; 
And  weep  to  view  how  fast  the  splendour  wanes, 
And  scarcely  heed,  that  yet  some  share  remains 
Of  the  red  after-light,  some  time  to  mark, 
Some  space  between  the  sundown  and  the  dark. 
But  not  for  him  those  golden  calms  succeed, 
Who,  while  the  day  is  high,  and  glory  reigns, 
Bees  it  go  by,— as  the  dim  Pampas  plain, 
Hoary  with  salt,  and  gray  with  bitter  weed, 
Sees  the  vault  blacken,  feels  the  dark  wind  strain, 
Hears  the  dry  thunder  roll,  and  knows  no  rain. 


176  SONNETS* 


VI. 


NOT  sometimes,  but,  to  him  that  heeds  the  whole, 

And  in  the  Ample  reads  his  personal  page, 

Labouring  to  reconcile,  content,  assuage, 

The  vexed  conditions  of  his  heritage, 

For  ever  waits  an  angel  at  the  goal ; 

And  ills  seem  hut  as  food  for  spirits  sage, 

And  grief  becomes  a  dim  apparelage, 

The  weed  and  wearing  of  the  sacred  soul. 

Might  I  but  count,  but  hero,  one  watchlight  spark ! 

But  vain,  oh  vain  !  this  turning  for  the  light,—* 

Vain  as  a  groping  hand  to  rend  the  dark. 

I  call,  entangled  in  the  night, — a  night 

Of  wind  and  voices  I  but  the  gusty  roll 

Is  vague,  nor  comes  there  cheer  of  pilotage. 


SONNETS.  177 


VIL 

DANE  fens  of  cedar ;  hemlock-branches  gray 
With  tress  and  trail  of  mosses  wringing-wet ; 
Beds  of  the  black  pitch-pine  in  dead  leaves  set 
Whose  wasted  red  has  wasted  to  white  away  ; 
Remnants  of  rain,  and  droppings  of  decay, — 
Why  hold  ye  so  my  heart,  nor  dimly  let 
Through  your  deep  leaves  the  light  of  yesterday, 
The  faded  glimmer  of  a  sunshine  set  ? 
Is  it  that  in  your  blindness,  shut  from  strife, 
The  bread  of  tears  becomes  the  bread  of  life  ? 
Far  from  the  roar  of  day,  beneath  your  boughs 
Fresh  griefs  beat  tranquilly,  and  loves  and  vows 
Grow  green  in  your  gray  shadows,  dearer  far 
Even  than  all  lovely  lights,  and  roses,  are  ? 


12 

. 


178  ,       SONNETS. 


vm. 

As  when,  down  some  broad  River  dropping,  we, 

Day  after  day,  behold  the  assuming  shores 

Sink  and  grow  dim,  as  the  great  "Water-course 

Pushes  his  banks  apart  and  seeks  the  sea ; 

Benches  of  pines,  high  shelf  and  balcony, 

To  flats  of  willow  and  low  sycamores 

Subsiding,  till,  where'er  the  wave  we  see, 

Himself  is  his  horizon  utterly  : 

So  fades  the  portion  of  our  early  world. 

Still  on  the  ambit  hangs  the  purple  air ; 

Yet,  while  we  lean  to  read  the  secret  there, 

The  stream  that  by  green  shore-sides  splashed  and 

purled 

Expands ;  the  mountains  melt  to  vapors  rare, 
And  life  alone  circles  out  flat  and  bare. 


SONNETS.  179 


IX. 


YET  wear  we  on ;  the  deep  light  disallowed 
That  lit  our  youth, — in  years  no  longer  young, 
We  wander  silently,  and  brood  among 
Dead  graves,  and  tease  the  sun-break  and  the 

cloud 

For  import.    Were  it  not  better  yet  to  fly, 
To  follow  those  who  go  before  the  throng, 
Reasoning  from  stone  to  star,  and  easily 
Exampling  this  existence  ?  or  shall  I — 
Who  yield  slow  reverence  where  I  cannot  seo, 
And  gather  gleams,  where'er  by  chance  or  choice 
My  footsteps  draw, — though  brokenly  dispensed, — 
Come  into  light  at  last  ?  or  suddenly, 
Struck  to  the  knees  like  Saul,  one  arm  against 
The  overbearing  brightness,  hear — a  Voice  ? 

12— a 


180  SONNETS* 


X. 


AN  upper  chamber  in  a  darkened  house, 

Where,  ere  his  footsteps  reached  ripe  manhood's 

brink, 

Terror  and  anguish  were  his  cup  to  drink, — 
I  cannot  rid  the  thought,  nor  hold  it  close ; 
But  dimly  dream  upon  that  man  alone  ;— • 
Now  though  the  autumn  clouds  most  softly  pass  ; 
The  cricket  chides  beneath  the  doorstep  stone, 
And  greener  than  the  season  grows  the  grass. 
Nor  can  I  drop  my  lids,  nor  shade  my  brows, 
But  there  he  stands  beside  the  lifted  sash  : 
And,  with  a  swooning  of  the  heart,  I  think 
Where  the  black  shingles  slope  to  meet  the  boughs, 
And — shattered  on  the  roof  like  smallest  snows-* 
The  tiny  petals  of  the  moun tain  *  ash. 


SONNETS,  181 


XI. 


WHAT  profits  it  to  mo,  though  hero  allowed 
Life,  sunlight,  leisure,  if  they  fail  to  urga 
Me  to  due  motion,  or  myself  to  merge 
With  the  onward  stream,  too  humhlo,  or  too  proud? 
That  find  myself  not  with  the  popular  surge 
Washed  off  and  on,  or  up  to  higher  reefs 
Flung  with  the  foremost,  when  the  rolling  crowd 
Hoists  like  a  wave,  nor  strong  to  speak  aloud ; 
But  standing  here,  gazing  on  my  own  griefs, 
Strange  household  woe,  and  wounds  that  Weed  and 

smart; 

With  still  lips,  and  an  outcry  in  the  heart ! — 
Or  now,  from  day  to  day,  I  coldly  creep 
By  summer  farms  and  fields,  by  stream  and  steep, 
Doll,  and  like  one  exhausted  with  deep  sleep. 


182  SONNETS, 


xn. 

i 

TALL*  stately  plants,  with  spikes  and  forks  of  gold, 

Crowd  every  slope  t  my  heart  repeats  its  cry,— 

A  cry  for  strength,  for  strength  and  victory ; 

The  will  to  strive,  the  courage  overbold 

That  would  have  moved  me  once  to  turn  indeed. 

And  level  with  the  dust  each  lordly  weed. 

But  now  I  weep  upon  my  wayside  walks, 

And  sigh  for  those  fair  days,  when  glorying 

I  stood  a  boy  amid  the  mullein-stalks, 

And  dreamed  myself  like  him  the  Lion-King ; 

There,  where  his  shield  shed  arrows,   and  the 

clank 

Clashed  on  his  helm  of  battle-axe  and  brand, . 
He  pushed  the  battle  backward,  rank  on  rank, 
Fallen  in  the  sword-swing  of  his  stormy  hand. 


SONNETS.  163 


xin. 

As  one  who  walks  and  weeps  by  alien  brine, 
And  hears  the  heavy  land-wash  break,  so  I, 
Apart  from  friends,  remote  in  misery, 
But  brood  on  pain,  and  find  in  heaven  no  sign  : 
The  lights  are  strange,  and  bitter  voices  by. 
So  the  doomed  sailor,  left  alone  to  die, 
Looks  sadly  seaward  at  the  day's  decline, 
And  hears  his  parting  comrades'  jeers  and  scoffs ; 
Or  sees,  through  mists  that  hinder  and  deform, 
The  dewy  stars  of  home, — sees  Regulus  shine 
With  a  hot  flicker  through  the  murky  damp, 
And  setting  Sirius  twitch  and  twinge  like  a  lamp 
Slung  to  the  mast-head,  in  a  night  of  storm, 
Of  lonely  vessel  labouring  in  the  troughs. 


184  SONNETS. 


XIV, 

Nor  proud  of  station,  nor  in  worldly  pelf 
Immoderately  rich,  nor  rudely  gay ; 
Gentle  he  was,  and  generous  in  a  way, 
And  with  a  wise  direction  ruled  himself. 
Large  Nature  spread  his  table  every  day ; 
And  so  he  lived, — to  all  the  blasts  that  woo, 
Responsible,  as  yon  long  locust  spray 
That  waves  and  washes  in  the  windy  blue. 
Nor  wanted  he  a  power  to  reach  and  reap 
From  hardest  things  a  consequence  and  use  j 
And  yet  this  friend  of  mine,  in  one  small  hour 
Fell  from  himself,  and  was  content  to  weep 
For  eyes  love-dark,  red  lips,  and  cheeks  in  hues 
Not  red,  but  rose-dim,  like  the  jacinth-flower  I 


SONNETS.  185 


.XV, 

AND  she,  her  beauty  never  made  her  cold,— 

Young-Oread-like,  heside  the  green  hill-crest, 

And  blissfully  obeying  Love's  behest, 

She  turned  to  him  as  to  a  god  of  old  ! 

Her  smitten  soul  with  its  full  strength  and  spring 

Retaliating  his  love  ;  unto  that  breast, 

Ere  scarce  the  arms  dared  open  to  infold, 

She  gave  herself  as  but  a  little  thing  ! 

And  now, — to  impulse  cold,  to  passion  dead, — 

With  the  wild  grief  of  unperfected  years, 

He  kissed  her  hands,  her  mouth,  her  hair,  her 

head; 

Gathered  her  close  and  closer,  to  drink  up 
The  odour  of  her  beauty ;  then  in  tears, 
As  for  a  world,  gave  from  his  lips  the  cup ! 


186  SONNETS. 


XVL 

YET  Nature,  where  the  thunder  leaves  its  trace 
On  the  high  hemlock  pine,  or  sandstone  bank, 
Hating  all  shock  of  hue,  or  contrast  rank, 
With  some  consenting  colour  heals  the  place, 
Or  o'er  it  draws  her  mosses  green  and  dank. 
So  gentle  Time  will  bring  with  tender  craft 
Another  day,  and  other  greens  ingraft 
On  the  dead  soil,  so  fire-burned  now,  and  blank. 
What  we  have  had,  we  hold  ;  and  cannot  sink 
Kemembrance  {  patience  cometh  from  above. 
And  now  he  breathes  apart,  to  daily  drink 
In  tears  the  bitter  ashes  of  his  love, 
Yet  precious-rich,  and  a  diviner  draught 
Than  Agria  or  Artemisia  drank  ! 


SONNETS,  187 


XVII. 

ALL    men, — the    Preacher   saith, — whatever   or 

whence 

Their  increase,  walking  thro*  this  world  has  been  ; 
Both  those  that  gather  out,  or  after-glean, 
Or  hold  in  simple  fee  of  harvests  dense  ; 
Or  hut  perhaps  a  flowerless  barren  green, 
Barren  with  spots  of  sorrel,  knot-grass,  spurge  : — 
See  to  one  end  their  differing  paths  converge, 
And  all  must  render  answer,  here  or  hence, 
"Lo!  Death  is  at  the  doors,"  he  crieth,  "with 

blows ! " 

But  what  to  him,  unto  whose  feverish  sense 
The  stars  tick  audibly,  and  the  wind's  low  surge 
In  the  pine,  attended,  tolls,  and  throngs,  and  grows 
On  the  dread  ear, — a  thunder  too  profound 
For  bearing,— a  Niagara  of  sound  1 


188  SONNETS, 


XVHL 

PERCHANCE  his  own  small  field  some  charge  de 

mands,-— 

So  fall  the  eternal  Choral  sobs  and  swells  } 
Bat  clear  away  the  weeds,  although  there  lark 
Within  the  weeds  a  few  dim  asphodels, 
Flowers  of  a  former  day,  how  fair !  how  fair  I 
And  yet  behold  them  not,  but  to  the  work, 
Before  the  short  light  darken,  set  thy  hands  1 
Nor  over  the  surface  dip  with  easy  share, 
But  beam-deep,  plough  and  plunge  your  parallels 
Breaking  in  clod  and  flower !  that  so  may  spring 
From  the  deep  grain  a  goodlier  growth  and  kind 
Unstirred  of  heats  that  blast,  of  frosts  that  bind, 
Nor  swept  aside,  ere  the  seed  catch,  by  wing 
Of  casual  shower,  nor  any  chance  of  wind. 


SONNETS.  189 


XIX. 

• 
YET  vain,  perhaps,  the  fruits  our  care  applaud ; 

If  the  Fore-fate  decree  the  harvest  fat, 

Why  should  we  mind  this  thing,  or  matter  that, 

To  sift  the  seed,  and  blow  the  chaff  abroad  ? 

But  doubt  not  so  the  Giver  to  defraud, 

Who  will  accuse  thy  labour  :  spend,  nor  slack 

Of  thy  best  strength  and  sweetness  too,  till  Gpd, 

With  a  full  hand  and  flowing,  pay  thee  back. 

Behold !  on  rolling  zone  and  zodiac 

The  spray  and  scatter  of  his  bounty  flung  ! 

And  what  canst  thou,  to  whom  no  hands  belong 

To  hasten  by  one  hour  the  morning's  birth  ? 

Or  stay  one  planet  at  his  circle  hung, 

In  the  great  flight  of  stars  across  the  earth  ? 


liK)  SONNETS. 


STILL  craves  the  spirit :  never  Nature  solves 
That  yearning  which  with  her  first  breath  began  ; 
And,  in  its  blinder  instinct,  still  devolves 
On  god  or  pagod,  Manada  or  man, 
Or,  lower  yet,  brute-service,  apes  and  wolves  ! 
By  Borneo's  surf,  the  bare  Barbarian 
Still  to  the  sands  beneath  him  bows  to  pray : 
Give  Greek  his  god,  the  Bheel  his  devil-sway ; 
And  what  remains  to  me,  who  count  no  odds 
Between  such  Lord  and  him  I  saw  to-day, — 
The  farmer  mounted  on  his  market-load, 
Bundles  of  wool,  and  locks  of  upland  hay  ; 
The  son  of  toil,  that  his  own  works  bestrode, 
And  him,  Ophion,  earliest  of  the  gods  ? 


SONNETS.  191 


XXI. 

0  FATHER,  God  !  to  whom,  in  happier  days, 
My  father  bade  me  cry  when  troubles  fall, 
Again  I  come  before  thy  tribunal, 
Too  faint  for  prayer,  and  all  too  blind  for  praise  ; 
Yet  owning  never,  through  life's  dim  career, 
The  eye  that  would  not  see,  and  reckless  ear ; 
Against  my  head  no  more  thy  tempests  call ! — 
Refreshing  that  wild  sorrow  of  the  heart, 
And  those  fierce  tears  :  another  morning  raise 
Upon  this  vision,  now  so  dimmed  and  swoln : 
Guide  me,  as  once,  unto  thy  feet  to  flee ; 
Claiming  no  price  of  labour,  place,  or  part ; 
And  only  seek,  before  thy  footstool  fall'n, 
Tears  in  mine  eyes,  to  lift  these  hands  of  me ! 


192  SONNETS. 


xxn. 

THE   morning  comes;   not  slow,  with  reddening 

gold, 

But  wildly  driven,  with  windy  shower,  and  sway 
As  though  the  wind  would  blow  the  dark  away ! 
Voices  of  wail,  of  misery  multifold, 
Wake  with  the  light,  and  its  harsh  glare  obey  { 
And  yet  I  walk  betimes  this  day  of  spring, 
Still  my  own  private  portion  reckoning, 
Not  to  compute,  though  every  tear  be  told. 
Oh,  might  I  on  the  gale  my  sorrow  fling  ! 
But  sweep,  sweep  on,  wild  blast !  who  bids  thee 

stay? 

Across  the  stormy  headknds  shriek  and  sing ; 
And,  earlier  than  the  daytime,  bring  the  day 
To  pouring  eyes,  half-quenched  with  watery  sight, 
And  breaking  hearts  that  hate  the  morning  light ! 


SONNETS.  193 


xxin. 

SHA.LL  I  not  BOO  her  ?    Yes :  for  one  has  seen 

Her  in  her  beauty,  since  we  called  her  dead,-— 

One  like  herself,  a  fair  young  mother,  led 

By  her  own  lot  to  feel  compassion  keen  ; 

And  unto  her  last  night  my  Anna  came, 

And  sat  within  her  arms,  and  spoke  har  name, 

"  While  the  old  smile,"  she  said,  "  like  starlight 

gleamed : 

And  like  herself  in  fair  young  bloom,"  she  said, 
"  Only  the  white  more  white,  the  red  more  red ; 
And  fainter  than  the  mist  her  pressure  seemed.'1 
And  words  there  were,  though  vague,  yet  beautiful, 
Which  she  who  heard  them  could  not  tell  to  me; — 
It  is  enough !  my  Anna  did  not  flee 
To  grief  or  fear,  nor  lies  in  slumber  dull. 


13 


194  SONNETS. 


XXIV. 

PERHAPS  a  dream ;  yet  surely  truth  has  beamed 
Oft  from  the  gate  of  dreams  upon  the  brain  : 
As  on  yon  mountain,  black  with  thunder-rain, 
To-day,  through  cloudy  clefts,  the  glory  streamed 
Why  do  men  doubt,  and  balance,  and  disdain, 
Where  she,  the  gentler  spirit,  seeks  to  skim 
Light  from  the  vague, — though  thick  the  shadow 

swim; 

Still  counting  what  she  may  not  all  explain, — 
Not  to  be  lost,  or  lightly  disesteemed, — 
Though  cloudy  of  shape  it  seem,  and  meaning  dim 
Did  Manoah's  wife  doubt  ere  she  showed  to  him 
The  angel  standing  in  the  golden  grain  ? 
Had  Deborah  fear  ?  or  was  that  Vision  vain 
That  Actia,  Arlotte,  and  Maudan6  dreamed  ? 


SONNETS,  195 


XXV, 

BY  this  low  fire  I  often  sit  to  woo 

Memory  to  bring  the  days  for  ever  done  ; 

And  call  the  mountains,  where  our  love  begun, 

And  the  dear  happy  woodlands  dipped  in  dew ; 

And  pore  upon  the  landscape,  like  a  book, 

But  cannot  find  her ;  or  there  rise  to  me 

Gardens  and  groves  in  light  and  shadow  outspread ; 

Or,  on  a  headland  far  away,  I  see 

Men  marching  slow  in  orderly  review  ; 

And  bayonets  Hash,  as,  wheeling  from  the  sun, 

Bank  after  rank  give  fire :  or,  sad,  I  look 

On  miles  of  moonlit  brine,  with  many  a  bed 

Of  wave-weed  heaving, — there,  the  wet  sands  shine, 

And  just  awash,  the  low  reef  lifts  its  line. 


13-3 


196  SONNETS. 


XXVI. 

FOB  Nature  daily  through  her  grand  design 
Breathes  contradiction  where  she  seems  most  cleai 
For  I  have  held  of  her  the  gift  to  hear ; 
And  felt,  indeed,  endowed  of  sense  divine. 
When  I  have  found,  by  guarded  insight  fine, 
Cold  April  flowers  in  the  green  end  of  June ; 
And  thought  myself  possessed  of  Nature's  ear, 
When,  by  the  lonely  mill-brook,  into  mine, 
Seated  on  slab,  or  trunk  asunder  sawn, 
The  night-hawk  blew  his  horn  at  sunny  noon ; 
And  in  the  rainy  midnight  I  have  heard 
The  ground-sparrow*8  long  twitter  from  the  pine, 
And  the  cat-bird's  silver  song, — the  wakeful  bird 
That  to  the  lighted  window  sings  for  dawn. 


SONNETS.  197 


xxvn, 

So,  to  the  mind  long  brooding  but  on  it — 
A  haunting  theme  for  anger,  joy,  or  tears, — 
With  ardent  eyes,  not  what  we  think,  appears, 
But,  hunted  home,  behold  its  opposite ! 
Worn  Sorrow  breaking  in  disastrous  mirth, 
And  wild  tears  wept  of  laughter,  like  the  drops 
Shook  by  the  trampling  thunder  to  the  earth  ; 
And  each  seems  either,  or  but  a  counterfeit 
Of  that  it  would  dissemble  :  hopes  are  fears, 
And  love  is  woe.    Nor  here  the  discord  stops ; 
But  through  all  human  life  runs  the  account, — 
Born  into  pain,  and  ending  bitterly ; 
Yet  sweet  perchance,  between-time,  like  a  fount, 
That  rises  salt,  and  freshens  to  the  sea. 


198  BONNETS. 


xxvm. 

NOT  the  round  natural  world,  not  the  deep  mind, 
The  reconcilement  holds :  the  blue  abyss 
Collects  it  not ;  our  arrows  sink  amiss ; 
And  but  in  Him  may  wo  our  import  find. 
The  agony  to  know,  the  grief,  the  bliss 
Of  toil,  is  vain  and  vain  I  clots  of  the  sod 
Gathered  in  heat  and  haste,  and  flung  behind 
To  blind  ourselves  and  others, — what  but  this 
Still  grasping  dust,  and  sowing  toward  the  wind  ? 
No  more  thy  meaning  seek,  thine  anguish  plead  ; 
But,  leaving  straining  thought,  and  stammerini 

word, 

Across  the  barren  azure  pass  to  God  ; 
Shooting  the  void  in  silence,  like  a  bird, — 
'A  bird  that  shuts  his  wings  for  better  speed  ! 


SONNETS,  199 


0  n  n  tt  a. 

PART    II. 

I, 

"  THAT  boy,"— the  farmer  said,  with  hazel  wand 
Pointing  him  out,  half  by  the  haycock  hid,—' 
"  Though  bare  sixteen,  can  work  at  what  he's  bid, 
From  sun  till  set, — to  cradle,  reap,  or  band," 
I  heard  the  words,  but  scarce  could  understand 
Whether  they  claimed  a  smile,  or  give  me  pain  ; 
Or  was  it  aught  to  me,  in  that  green  lane, 
That  all  day  yesterday,  the  briers  amid, 
He  held  the  plough  against  the  jarring  land 
Steady,  or  kept  his  place  among  the  mowers ; 
Whilst  other  fingers,  sweeping  for  the  flowers, 
Brought  from  the  forest  back  a  crimson  stain  ? 
Was  it  a  thorn  that  touched  the  flesh  ?  or  did 
The  poke-berry  spit  purple  on  my  hand  ? 


200  SONNETS. 


IL 


NOR  idle  all,  though  naught  he  sees  in  thine— 

But  dallying  with  the  day  to  make  it  brief ; 

And  thinks  it  braver  far  to  tramp  the  leaf 

.With  dog  and  gun,  thro1  tamerac,  birch,  and  pine; 

Or  lounge  the  day  beneath  a  tavern-sign  : 

Yet  in  his  labour  can  I  well  discern 

Groat  working*  moving,  both  in  his,  and  mine. 

What  though  indeed  a  joyless  verse  I  turn  ? 

The  flowers  are  fair,  and  give  their  glimmering 

heaps 

To  grace  her  rent.    And  HO  to-night  I  pans 
To  that  low  mound,  gone  over  now  with  grass, 
And  find  her  stirless  still ;  whilst  overhead 
Creation  movoth,  and  the  furm-boy  sloops 
A  still  strong  sloop,  till  but  tho  oaHt  in  rod* 


SONNETS.  201 


in. 


YES  :  though  the  brine  may  from  the  desert  deep 

Ban  itself  sweet  before  it  finds  the  foam, 

Oh  !  what  for  him — the  deep  heart  once  a  home 

For  love  and  light — is  left  ? — ta  walk  and  weep ; 

Still,  with  astonished  sorrow,  watch  to  keep 

On  his  dead  day :  he  weeps,  and  knows  his  doom, 

Yet  standeth  stunned ;  as  one  who  climbs  a  steep, 

And  dreaming  softly  of  the  cottage-room, 

The  faces  round  the  porch,  the  rose  in  showers,— 

Gains  the  last  height  between  his  heart  and  it ; 

And,  from  the  windows  where  his  children  sleep, 

Sees  the  red  fire  fork ;  or,  later  come, 

Finds,  where  he  left  his  home,  a  smouldering  pit,— 

Blackness  and  scalding  stench,  for  love  and  flowers ! 


202  BONNETS* 


IV. 


BUT  Grief  finds  solace  faint  in  others*  ills, 

And  but  in  her  own  shadow  loves  to  go : 

For  her,  the  mountain-side  may  flower  or  flow  j 

Alike  to  that  dull  eye,  the  wild  brook  fills 

With  mist  the  chasm,  or  feeds  the  fields  below ; 

Alike  the  latter  rain,  with  sure  return, 

Breaks  in  the  barren  pine,  or  thick  distils 

On  the  pond-lily  and  the  green  brook  flags, 

Or  rises  softly  up  to  flood  the  fern. 

What  though  the  world  were  water-drowned  ?  on 

though 

The  sun,  from  his  high  place  descending  slow, 
Should  over  the  autumn  landscapes  brood  and  burn, 
Till  all  the  vales  were  tinder,  and  their  crags, 
Apt  to  the  touch  of  fire,  Ilcphiestian  hills  ? 


SONNETS.  203 


No  shame  dissuades  his  thought,  no  scorn  despoils 
Of  beauty,  who,  the  daily  heaven  beneath, 
Gathers  his  bread  by  run-sides,  rocks,  and  groves. 
Ho  drinks  from  rivers  of  a  thousand  soils  j 
And,  where  broad  Nature  blows,  ho  takes  his  breath : 
For  BO  his  thought  stands  like  the  things  he  loves, 
In  thunderous  purple  like  Cascadnac  peak, 
Or  glimpses  faint  with  grass  and  cinquefc-ils. 
The  friend  may  listen  with  a  sneering  cheek, 
Concede  the  matter  good,  and  wish  good  luck ; 
Or  plainly  say,  "  Your  brain  is  planet-struck !  H— 
And  drop  your  hoarded  thought  as  vague  and  vain, 
Like  bypast  flowers,  to  redden  again  in  rain, 
Flung  to  the  offal-heap  with  shard  and  shuck  t 


204  SONNETS. 


VL 


No!  cover  not  the  fault.    The  wise  revere 

The  judgment  of  the  simple  :  harshly  flow 

The  words  of  counsel  j  but  the  end  may  show 

Matter  and  music  to  the  unwilling  ear, 

But  perfect  grief,  like  love,  should  cast  out  fear, 

And,  like  an  o'er-brimmed  river,  moaning  go. 

Yet  shrinks  it  from  the  senseless  chaff  and  chat 

Of  those  who  smile,  and  insolently  bestow 

Their  ignorant  praise ;  or  those  who  stoop  andi 

peer 

To  pick  with  sharpened  fingers  for  a  flaw ; 
Nor  ever  touch  the  quick,  nor  rub  the  raw. 
Better  than  this,  were  surgery  rough  as  that, 
Which,  hammer  and  chisel  in  hand,  at  one  sharp 

blow 
Strikes  out  the  wild  tooth  from  a  horse's  jaw ! 


SONNETS.  205 


VIL 

His  heart  was  in  his  garden  ;  hut  his  hrain 
Wandered  at  will  among  the  fiery  stars : 
Bards,  heroes,  prophets,  Homers,  Hamilcars, 
With  many  angels,  stood,  his  eye  to  gain  ; 
The  devils,  too,  were  his  familiars. 
And  yet  the  cunning  florist  held  his  eyes 
Close  to  the  ground, — a  tulip-bulb  his  prize, — 
And  talked  of  tan  and  hone-dust,  cutworms,  grubs, 
As  though  all  Nature  held  no  higher  strain ; 
Or,  if  he  spoke  of  Art,  he  made  the  thome 
Flow  through  box-borders,  turf,  and  flower-tubs ; 
Or,  like  a  garden-engine's,  steered  the  stream, — 
Now  spouted  rainbows  to  the  silent  skies ; 
Now  kept  it  flat,  and  raked  the  walks  and  shrubs. 


206  SONNETS. 


VIIL 

COMPANIONS  were  we  in  the  grove  and  glen ! 
Through  belts  of  summer  wandered  hour  on  hour, 
Ransacking  sward  and  swamp  to  deck  his  bower,— 
River,  and  reservoir  of  mountain  rain ; 
Nor  sought  for  hard-named  herb,  or  plant  of  power, 
But  Whippoorwill-shoe,  and  quaint  Sidesaddle- 
flower. 

And  still  he  talked,  asserting,  thought  is  free ; 
And  wisest  souls  by  their  own  action  shine  : 
"  For  beauty,"  he  said,  "  is  seen  where'er  we  look. 
Growing  alike  in  waste  and  guarded  ground ; 
And,  like  the  May-flower,  gathered  equally 
On  desolate  hills,  where  scantily  the  pine 
Drops  his  dry  wisps  about  the  barren  rock, 
And  in  the  angles  of  the  fences  found." 


SONNETS.  207 


IX. 


BUT  unto  him  came  swift  calamity, 

In  the  sweet  spring-time,  when  his  beds   were 

green ; 

And  my  heart  waited,  trustfully  serene, 
For  the  new  blossom  on  my  household-tree, 
But  flowers,  and  gods,  and  quaint  Philosophy, 
Are  poor,  in  truth,  to  fill  the  empty  place ; 
Nor  any  joy,  nor  season's  jollity, 
Can  aught,  indeed,  avail  to  grace  our  grief. 
Can  spring  return  to  him  a  brother's  face  ? 
Or  bring  my  darling  back  to  me, — to  me  ? 
Undimmed  the  May  went  on  with  bird  and  bower ; 
The  summer  filled  and  faded  like  a  flower ; 
But  rainy  Autumn  and  the  red-turned  leaf 
Found  us  at  tears,  and  wept  for  company. 


208  .          SONNETS. 


THY  baby,  too,  the  child  that  was  to  be, 

Thro'  happier  days,-~-a  brightening  sun  above, — 

Held  to  thy  heart  with  more  forgetful  love,-— 

So  proud  a  portion  of  thyself  and  me : 

We  talked  it  o'er, — the  bliss  that  was  to  bless  ; 

The  birth,  the  baby  robes,  the  christening, 

And  all  our  hearts  were  carried  in  this  thing. 

Cold,  cold  she  lies  where  houseless  tempests  blow; 

The  baby's  face  is  here,  almost  a  woe  J 

And  I,  so  seared  in  soul,  so  sapped  and  shrunk, 

Gaze  hopeless, — careless,  in  my  changed  estate 

To  fall  at  once,  or  in  the  wilderness 

Stand  like  a  charred  and  fire-hardened  trunk, 

To  break  the  axe's  edge  of  Time  and  Fate  I 


SONNETS.  209 


XI. 


STILL  pressing  through  these  weeping  solitudes, 
Perchance  I  snatch  a  beam  of  comfort  bright, — 
And  pause,  to  fix  the  gleam,  or  lose  it  quite, 
That  darkens  as  I  move,  or  but  intrudes 
To  baffle  and  forelay  :  as  sometimes  here, 
When  late  at  night  the  wearied  engineer 
Driving  his  engine  up  through  Whately  woods, 
Sees  on  the  track  a  glimmering  lantern-light, 
And  checks  his  crashing  speed, — with  hasty  hand 
Reversing  and  retarding.    But,  again  I 
Look  where  it  burns,  a  furlong  on  before  I— 
The  witchlight  of  the  reedy  river-shore! 
The  pilot  of  the  forest  and  the  fen, 
Not  to  be  left,  but  with  the  waste  woodland. 


14 


210  SONNETS. 


XII. 

How  most  unworthy,  echoing  in  mine  ears, 
The  verse  sounds  on  I—Life,  Love,  Experienc 
Art, 

Fused  into  grief;  and  like  a  grief-filled  heart, 
Where  all  emotion  tends  and  turns  to  tears, 
Broken  by  its  own  strength  of  passion  and  need  : 
Unworthy,  though  the  bitter  waters  start 
In  these  dim  eyes,  reviewing  thought  and  word  ;. 
The  high  desire,  the  faint  accomplished  deed ; 
Unuttered  love  and  loss,— and  feverish 
Beatings  against  a  gate  for  ever  barred. 
Yet  over  and  again  I  range  and  read 
The  blotted  page,  re-turning  leaf  and  leaf; 
And  half-believe  the  words  are  what  I  wish, 
And  pore  upon  my  verse,  and  court  my  grief,— 


SONNETS.  211 


XIII, 

EVEN  as  a  lover,  dreaming,  unaware, 

Calls  o'er  his  mistress1  features  hour  by  hour, 

Nor  thinks  of  simple  dress,  and  humble  dower; 

But  pictures  to  himself  her  graces  rare,—' 

Dark  eyes,  dark  lashes,  and  harmonious  hair 

Caught  lightly  up  with  amaryllis  flower, 

Hoomanthus,  eardrop,  or  auricula  : 

And  deems  within  wide  Nature's  bound  and  law 

All  to  beseem  her  beauty  but  designed — 

Of  pure  or  proud ;  nor  counts  himself  too  bold 

To  fit  her  forehead  with  the  perfect  gold ; 

Or  round  her  girlish  temples  belt  and  bind 

Some  lamp  of  jewels,  lovelier  than  the  whole,— 

Green  diamond,  or  gem  of  girasol ! 


14—a 


212  SONNETS. 


XIV. 

THE  breeze  is  sharp,  the  sky  is  hard  and  blue,— 
Blue  with  white  tails  of  cloud.    On  such  a  day, 
Upon  a  neck  of  sand  o'erblown  with  spray, 
We  stood  in  silence  the  great  sea  to  view  j 
And  marked  the  bathers  at  their  shuddering  play 
Run  in  and  out  with  the  succeeding  wave, 
While  from  our  footsteps  broke  the  trembling  turi 
Again  I  hear  the  drenching  of  the  wave } 
The  rocks  rise  dim,  with  wall  and  weedy  cave  { 
Her  voice  is  in  mine  ears,  her  answer  yet  t 
Again  I  see,  above  the  froth  and  fret, 
The  blue  loft  standing  like  eternity  I 
And  white  feet  flying  from  the  surging  surf 
And  simmering  suds  of  the  sea  I 


SONNETS,  213 


XV. 

GERTRUDE  and  Gulielma,  sister-twins, 
Dwelt  in  the  valley,  at  the  farm-house  old  j 
Nor  grief  had  touched  their  locks  of  dark  and  gold, 
Nor  dimmed  the  fragrant  whiteness  of  their  skins  : 
Both  beautiful,  and  one  in  height  and  mould ; 
Yet  one  had  loveliness  which  the  spirit  wins 
To  other  worlds, — eyes,  forehead,  smile,  and  all, 
More  softly  serious  than  the  twilight's  fall. 
The  other— can  I  e'er  forget  the  day, 
When,  stealing  from  a  laughing  group  away, 
To  muse  with  absent  eye,  and  motion  slow, 
Her  beauty  fell  upon  me  like  a  blow  ? — 
Gertrude  t  with  red  flowerlip,  and  silk  black  hair ! 
Yet  Gulielma  was  by  far  more  fair  I 


214  SONNETS. 


XVI. 

UNDER  the  mountain,  as  when  first  I  knew 
Its  low  black  roof,  and  chimney  creeper-twined, 
The  red  house  stands  ;  and  yet  my  footsteps  find 
Vague  in  the  walks,  waste  balm  and  feverfew. 
But  they  are  gone :  no  soft-eyed  sisters  trip 
Across  the  porch  or  lintels ;  where,  behind, 
The  mother  sat, — sat  knitting  with  pursed  lip. 
The  house  stands  vacant  in  its  green  recess, 
Absent  of  beauty  as  a  broken  heart ; 
The  wild  rain  enters  ;  and  the  sunset  wind 
Sighs  in  the  chambers  of  their  loveliness, 
Or  shakes  the  pane  ;  and  in  the  silent  noons, 
The  glass  falls  from  the  window,  part  by  part, 
And  ringeth  faintly  in  the  grassy  stones. 


SONNETS.  215 


xvn. 

ROLL  on,  sad  world  !  not  Mercury  or  Mars 
Could  swifter  speed,  or  slower,  round  the  sun, 
Than  in  this  year  of  variance  thou  hast  done 
For  me.  Yet  pain,  fear,  heart-break,  woes,  and  wars 
Have  natural  limit ;  from  his  dread  eclipse 
The  swift  sun  hastens,  and  the  night  debars 
The  day,  but  to  bring  in  the  day  more  bright ; 
The  flowers  renew  their  odorous  fellowships ; 
The  moon  runs  round  and  round ;  the  slow  earth 

dips, 

True  to  her  poise,  and  lifts ;  the  planet-stars 
Roll  and  return  from  circle  to  ellipse ; 
The  day  is  dull  and  soft,  the  eave-trough  drips ; 
And  yet  I  know  the  splendour  of  the  light 
Will  break  anon :  look !  where  the  gray  is  white  ! 


216  SONNETS. 


XVHL 

AND  Change,  with  hurried  hand,  has  swept  these 

scenes: 

The  woods  have  fallen ;  across  the  meadow-lot 
The  hunter's  trail  and  trap-path  is  forgot ; 
And  fire  has  drunk  the  swamps  of  evergreens  t 
Yet  for  a  moment  let  my  fancy  plant 
Those  autumn  hills  again,— the  wild  dove's  haunt, 
The  wild  deer's  walk.    In  golden  umbrage  shut, 
The  Indian  river  runs,  Quonecktacut ! 
Here,  but  a  lifetime  back,  where  falls  to-night 
Behind  the  curtained  pane  a  sheltered  light 
On  buds  of  rose,  or  vase  of  violet 
Aloft  upon  the  marble  mantel  set,— 
Here,  in  the  forest-heart,  hung  blackening 
The  wolf-bait  on  the  bush  beside  the  spring. 


SONNETS,  217 


XIX. 

AND  faces,  forms,  and  phantoms,  numbered  not, 
Gather  and  pass  like  mist  upon  the  breeze ; 
Jading  the  eye  with  uncouth  images, — 
Women  with  muskets,  children  dropping  shot ; 
By  fields  half-harvested,  or  loft,  in  fear 
Of  Indian  inroad,  or  the  Hessian  near ; 
Disaster,  poverty,  and  dire  disease, 
Or  from  the  burning  village,  through  the  trees, 
I  see  the  smoke  in  reddening  volumes  roll ; 
The  Indian  file  in  shadowy  silence  pass, 
While  the  last  man  sets  up  the  trampled  grass ; 
The  Tory  priest  declaiming,  fierce  and  fat ; 
The  Shay's-man,  with  the  green  branch  in  his  hat • 
Or  silent  sagamore,  Shaug,  or  Wassahoale  1 


218  SONNETS. 


XX. 

0  HARD  endeavour,  to  blend  in  with  these — 
Deep  shadings  of  the  past,  a  deeper  grief; 
Or  blur  with  stranger  woes  a  wound  BO  chief,— 
Though  the  great  world  turn  slow  with  agonies ! 
What  though  the  forest  wind-flowers  fell  and  died, 
And  Gertrude  sleeps  at  Gulielma's  side  ? 
They  have  their  tears,  nor  turn  to  us  their  eyes  : 
But  we  pursue  our  dead  with  groans,  and  cries, 
And  bitter  reclamations,  to  the  term 
Of  undiscerning  darkness  and  the  worm } 
Then  sit  in  silence  down,  and  brooding  dwell, 
Through  the  slow  years,  on  all  we  loved,  and  tell 
Each  tone,  each  look  of  love,  each  syllable, 
With  lips  that  work,  with  eyes  that  overwell ! 


SONNETS,  219 


XXI. 

LAST  night  I  dreamed  we  parted  once  again  ; 
That  all  was  over,     From  the  outward  shore, 
I  saw  a  dark  bark  lessen  more  and  more, 
That  bore  her  from  me  o'er  the  boundless  main  ; 
And  yearned  to  follow  :  no  sense  of  mystery 
Fell  on  me,  nor  the  old  fear  of  the  sea  ; 
Only  I  thought,  "  Knowledge  must  bring  relief ;  "— 
Nor  feared  the  sunless  gulfs,  the  tempest's  bieath, 
Nor  drowning,  nor  the  bitterness  of  death  ! 
Yet  while,  as  one  who  sees  his  hope  decay, 
And  scarcely  weeping,  vacant  in  my  grief, 
I  on  the  jetty  stood,  and  watched  the  ship, — 
The  wave  broke  fresher,  flinging  on  my  lip 
Some  drops  of  salt:  I  shuddered,  and  turned  away. 


220  SONNETS* 


xxn. 

PUT  off  thy  bark  from  shore,  tho*  near  the  night ; 
And,  leaving  home,  and  friends,  and  hope,  behind,— 
Sail  down  the  lights !  Thou  scarce  canst  fail  to  find, 
0  desolate  one  !  the  morning  breaking  white ; 
Some  shore  of  rest  beyond  the  labouring  wave : 
Ah !  'tis  for  this  I  mourn :  too  long  I  have 
Wandered  in  tears  along  Life's  stormy  way, 
Where,  day  to  day,  no  haven  or  hope  reveals. 
Yet  on  the  bound  my  weary  sight  I  keep, 
As  one  who  sails,  a  landsman  on  the  deep, 
And,  longing  for  the  land,  day  after  day 
Sees  the  horizon  rise  and  fall,  and  feels 
His  heart  die  out,— still  riding  restlessly 
Between  the  sailing  cloud,  and  the  seasick  sea. 


SONNETS,  221 


XXIIL 

SOME  truths  may  pierce  the  spirit's  deeper  gloom, 

Yet  shine  unapprehended  ;  grand,  remote, 

We  bow  before  their  strength,  yet  feel  them  not ; 

When  some  low  promise  of  the  life  to  come, 

Blessing  the  mourner,  holds  the  heart  indeed, 

A  leading  lamp  that  all  may  reach  and  read  1 

Nor  reck  those  lights,  so  distant  over  us, 

Sublime,  but  helpless  to  the  spirit's  need 

As  the  night-stars  in  heaven's  vault !  yet,  thus, 

Though  the  great  asterisms  mount  and  burn 

In  inaccessible  glory,— this,  its  height 

Has  reached ;  but  lingers  on  till  light  return, 

Low  in  the  sky,  like  frosty  Sirius, 

To  snap  and  sparkle  through  the  winter's  night. 


222  SONNETS. 


XXIV. 

EACH  common  object,  too, — the  house,  the  grove, 
The  street,  the  face,  the  ware  in  the  window, — seem 
Alien  and  sad,  the  wreck  of  perished  dreams ; 
Painfully  present,  yet  remote  in  love* 
The  day  goes  down  in  rain,  the  winds  blow  wide. 
I  leave  the  town ;  I  climl  the  mountain-side, 
Striving  from  stumps  and  stones  to  wring  relief ; 
And  in  the  senseless  anger  of  my  grief, 
I  rave  and  weep  ;  I  roar  to  the  unmoved  skies  ; 
But  the  wild  tempest  carries  away  my  cries  ! — 
Then  back  I  turn  to  hide  my  face  in  sleep, 
Again  with  dawn  the  same  dull  round  to  sweep, 
And  buy,  and  sell,  and  prate,  and  laugh,  and  chide 
As  if  she  had  not  lived,  or  had  not  died. 


SONNETS,  223 


XXV. 

SMALL  gossip,  whispering  at  the  window-pane, 
Finds  reason  still,  for  aught  beneath  the  sun  j 
Answers  itself  ere  answer  shall  be  none, 
And  in  the  personal  field  delights  to  reign, — 
Meting  to  this,  his  grief;  to  that,  his  gain ; 
And  busy  to  detract,  to  head  or  hang ! 
Oh  !  wiser  far,  for  him  who  lieth  hid 
Within  himself,— secure,  like  him  to  stay, 
Icesius*  son  ;  who,  when  the  city  rang, 
Knew  there  was  news  abroad,  nor  wondered  what  !- 
If  these  conspire,  why  should  I  counterplot? 
Or  vex  my  heart  with  guessing  whether  or  not 
John  went  to  church,  or  what  my  neighbour  did 
The  day  before,  day  before  yesterday  ? 


224  BONNETS. 


XXVI. 

YET  from  indifference  may  we  hope  for  peace  ? 
Or  in  inaction  lose  the  sense  of  pain  ? 
Joyless  I  stand,  with  vacant  heart  and  brain, 
And  scarce  would  turn  the  hand,  to  be,  or  cease. 
No  onward  purpose  in  my  life  seems  plain  : 
To-day  may  end  it,  or  to-morrow  will ; 
Life  still  to  be  preserved,  though  worthless  still, 
A  tear-dimmed  face  glassed  in  a  gilded  locket. 
But  Conscience,  starting,  with  a  reddening  cheek, 
Loud  on  the  ear  her  homely  message  sends  ! 
"Ere  the  sun  plunge,  determine  j  up  !  awake  ! 
And  for  thy  sordid  being  make  amends  t 
Truth  is  not  found  by  feeling  in  the  pocket, 
Nor  Wisdom  sucked  from  out  the  fingers*  end  !  " 


SONNETS.  225 


XXVII, 

Bur  the  heart  murmurs  at  so  harsh  a  tone, — 
So  sunk  in  tears  it  lies,  so  gone  in  grief, 
With  its  own  blood  'twould  venture,  far  more  lief, 
Than  underprize  one  drop  of  Sorrow's  own, 
Or  grudge  one  hour  of  mournful  idleness. 
To  idle  time  indeed,  to  moan  our  moan, 
And  then  go  shivering  from  a  folded  gate,— 
Broken  in  heart  and  life,  exheredate 
Of  all  wo  loved !    Yet  some,  from  dire  distress, 
Accounting  tears  no  loss,  and  grief  no  crime, 
Have  gleaned  up  gold,  and  made  their  walk 

sublime : 

So  he,  poor  wanderer  in  steps  like  theirs, 
May  find  his  griefs,  though  it  must  be  with  tears, 
Gold  grit  and  grail,  washed  from  the  sands  of  Time. 

15 


226  SONNETS 


XXVIII. 

YET  sometimes,  with  the  sad  respectant  mind, 
"We  look  upon  lost  hours  of  want  and  wail, 
As  on  a  picture,  with  contentment  pale ; 
And  even  the  present  seems  with  voices  kind 
To  soothe  our  sorrow,  and  the  past  endears : 
Or  like  a  sick  man's  happy  trance  appears, 
When  on  the  first  soft  waves  of  Slumber's  calm  ; 
And  like  a  wreck  that  has  outlived  the  gale, — 
No  longer  lifted  by  the  wrenching  billow, 
He  rides  at  rest ;  while  from  the  distant  dam, 
Dim  and  far  off,  as  in  a  dream,  he  hears 
The  pulsing  hammer  play j— or  the  vague  wind 
Rising  and  falling  in  the  wayside  willow  ; 
Or  the  faint  rustling  of  the  watch  beneath  his 
pillow. 


SONNETS,  227 


XXIX. 

How  oft  in  schoolboy-days,  from  tbo  school's  sway 
Have  I  run  forth  to  Nature  as  to  a  friend, — 
With  some  pretext  of  o'erwrought  sight,  to  spend 
My  school-time  in  green  meadows  far  away  ! 
Careless  of  summoning  hell,  or  clocks  that  strike, 
I  marked  with  flowers  the  minutes  of  my  day  j 
For  still  the  eye  that  shrank  from  hated  hours, 
Dazzled  with  decimal  and  dividend, 
Knew  each  bleached  alder-root  that  plashed  across 
The  bubbling  brook,  and  every  mass  of  moss ; 
Could  tell  the  month,  too,  by  the  vervain-spike, — 
How  far  the  ring  of  purple  tiny  flowers 
Had  climbed ;  just  starting,  may-be,  with  the  May, 
Half-high,  or  tapering  off  at  Summer's  end. 


15— a 


I 

I 
228  SONNETS* 


XXX. 

YET,  even  mid  merry  boyhood's  tricks  and  scapes, 
Early  my  heart  a  deeper  lesson  learnt  j 
Wandering  alone  by  many  a  mile  of  burnt 
Black  woodside,  that  but  the  snow-flake  decks  and 

drapes* 

And  I  have  stood  beneath  Canadian  sky, 
In  utter  solitudes,  where  the  cricket's  cry 
Appals  the  heart,  and  fear  takes  visible  shapes ; 
And  on  Long  Island's  void  and  isolate  capes 
Heard  the  sea  break  like  iron  bars  :  and  still, 
In  all,  I  seemed  to  hear  the  same  deep  dirge ; 
Borne  in  the  wind,  the  insect's  tiny  trill, 
And  crash  and  jangle  of  the  shaking  surge ; 
And  knew  not  what  they  meant, — prophetic  woe  ? 
Dim  bodings,  wherefore  ?    Now,  indeed,  I  know  ! 


SONNETS.  229 


XXXI. 

i 

MY  Anna  !  when  for  thee  my  head  was  ho  wed, 
The  circle  of  the  world,  sky,  mountain,  main, 
Drew  inward  to  one  spot ;  and  now  again 
Wide  Nature  narrows  to  the  shell  and  shroud. 
In  the  late  dawn  they  will  not  he  forgot, 
And  evenings  early-dark,  when  the  low  rain 
Begins  at  nightfall,  though  no  tempests  rave, 
I  know  the  rain  is  falling  on  her  grave ; 
The  morning  views  it,  and  the  sunset  cloud 
Points  with  a  finger  to  that  lonely  spot; 
The  crops,  that  up  the  valley  rolling  go, 
Ever  towards  her  slumber  how  and  blow  ! 
I  look  on  the  sweeping  corn,  and  the  surging  rye, 
And  with  every  gust  of  wind  my  heart  goes  by  ! 


230  SONNETS. 


xxxn. 

OH  for  the  face  and  footstep !  woods  and  shore*  ! 
That  looked  upon  us  in  life's  happiest  flush  ; 
That  saw  our  figures  breaking  from  the  brush  ; 
That  heard  our  voices  calling  through  the  bowers 
How  are  ye  darkened  !     Deepest  tears  upgush 
From  the  heart's  heart;  and,  gathering  more  and! 

more, 

Blindness,  and  strangling  tears, — as  now  before 
Your  shades  I  stand,  and  find  ye  still  so  fair! 
And  thou,  sad  mountain-stream !  thy  stretches  steal 
Thro'  fern  and  flag,  as  when  we  gathered  flowers 
Along  thy  reeds  and  shallows  cold  ;  or  where— 
Over  the  red  reef,  with  a  rolling  roar — 
The  woods,  thro*  glimmering  gaps  of  green,  reveal, 
Sideward,  the  River  turning  like  a  wheel. 


SONNETS.  231 


XXXIIL 

ONE  still  dark  night,  I  sat  alone  and  wrote  ; 
So  still  it  was,  that  distant  Chanticleer 
Seemed  to  cry  out  his  warning  at  my  oar,— 
Save  for  the  brooding  echo  in  his  throat. 
Sullen  I  sat ;  when,  like  the  night-wind's  note, 
A  voice  said,  "  Wherefore  doth  he  weep  and  fear  ? 
Doth  he  not  know  no  cry  to  God  is  dumb  ?  " 
Another  spoke:  "His heart  is  dimmed  and  drowned 
With  grief,*1    I  knew  the  shape  that  bended  then 
To  kiss  me ;  when  suddenly  I  once  again, 
Across  the  watches  of  the  starless  gloom, 
Heard  the  cock  scream  and  pause ;  the  morning 

bell, 
Into  the  gulfs  of  Night,  dropped  One  !  the  vision 

fell,— 
And  left  me  listening  to  the  sinking  sound. 


232  SONNETS. 


XXXIV. 

MY  Anna !  though  thine  earthly  steps  are  done  : 
Nor  in  the  garden ,  nor  beside  the  door, 
Shall  I  behold  thee  standing  any  more, — 
I  would  not  hide  my  face  from  light,  nor  shun 
The  full  completion  of  this  worldly  day. 
What  though  beside  my  feet  no  other  one 
May  set  her  own,  to  walk  the  forward  way  ? 
I  will  not  fear  to  take  the  path  alone ; 
Loving,  for  thy  sake,  things  that  cheer  and  bless,- 
Kind  words,  pure  deeds,  and  gentlest  charities. 
Nor  will  I  cease  to  hold  a  hope  and  aim ; 
But,  prophet-like,  of  these  will  make  my  bread, 
And  feed  my  soul  at  peace  ;  as  Esdras  fed 
On  flowers,  until  the  Vision  and  the  glory  came  ! 


SONNETS.  233 


XXXV, 

NOB  all  of  solemn  is  my  thought  of  her  : 
Though  changed  and  glorified,  must  there  not  be 
Place  still  for  mirth,  and  innocent  gayety, 
And  pure  young  hearts  ?    Or  do  we  gravely  err, 
And  is  their  happiness  too  deep  for  joy  ? 
It  cannot  be  j  the  natural  heart's  employ 
Pours  praise  as  pure  as  any  worshipper 
Lost  in  his  rite ;  too  raptured  to  be  gay ! 
Yes ;  and  such  service  in  its  flight  outstrips 
The  cries  of  suffering  hearts  that  wail  and  bleed, 
The  groans  of  grief,  wrung  from  some  bitter  need.- 
This  is  the  faith  I  bear ;  and  look  indeed 
To  hear  her  laugh  again, — and  feel  her  lips 
Kiss  from  my  brow  the  heavy  thoughts  away. 


234  SONNETS. 


XXXVI. 

FAREWELL  !  farewell,  0  noble  heart  I  I  dreamed 
That  Time  nor  Death  could  from  my  side  divorce 
Thy  fair  young  life,  beside  whose  pure,  bright 

course 

My  earthly  nature  stationary  seemed ; 
Yet,  by  companionship,  direction  took, 

And  progress,  as  the  bank  runs  with  the  brook. — 

» 

Oh  !  round  that  mould  which  all  thy  mortal  hath, 
Our  children's,  and  about  my  own  sere  path, 
May  these  dim  thoughts  not  fall  as  dry  and  vain, 
But,  fruitful  as  March-dust,  or  April  rain, 
Forerun  the  green  !  foretell  the  perfect  day 
Of  restoration, — when,  in  fields  divine, 
And  walking  as  of  old,  thy  hand  in  mine, 
By  the  still  waters  we  may  softly  stray ! 


SONNETS,  285 


As  Eponina  brought,  to  move  the  king, 

In  the  old  day,  her  children  of  the  tomb, 

Begotten  and  brought  forth  in  charnel  gloom, — 

To  plead  a  father's  cause ;  so  I,  too,  bring 

Unto  thy  feet,  my  Maker,  tearfully, 

These  offspring  of  my  sorrow  ;  hidden  long, 

And  scarcely  able  to  abide  the  light, 

May  their  deep  cry  inaudible,  come  to  Thee, 

Clear,  through  the  cloud  of  words,  the  sobs  of  song, 

And, sharper  than  that  other's,  pierce  thine  ears! 

That  so,  each  thought,  aim,  utterance,  dark  or 

bright, 

May  find  thy  pardoning  love  ;  more  blest  than  she 
Who  joyful  passed  with  them  to  death  and  night, 
With  whom  she  had  been  buried  nine  long  years ! 

THE  END. 


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U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


